


made a mess of july

by daiseok



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Kim Seungmin/Seo Changbin, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Spoiler: Happy Ending, best friends who go on a trip and fall in love, so many descriptions of the sky, travel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29793201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daiseok/pseuds/daiseok
Summary: Even if Seoul and New York City had nothing in common, he would still feel at home. This he knows with a startling certainty.The reason why he truly feels at home squeezes his hand once, like the jump of a heartbeat.Minho and Jisung and the days it takes to fall in love: once in New York City, another time in Los Angeles, and finally, in Seoul.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Comments: 19
Kudos: 76





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> title is from july by hunny (i recommend you listen to the song at least once while reading)
> 
> thank you so much **g** for betaing this fic for me, it would not be what it is without you. words cannot describe how thankful i am.
> 
> thank you to **l** and **k** for listening to me rant about this and letting me send random excerpts.
> 
> enjoy!

Lee Minho firmly believes that nothing in the world is original.

One time in third grade, he had come up with the brilliant idea to build an eco-friendly helicopter made out of plastic bottles and straws to deliver mail instead of using trucks. The helicopter was powered by dried grass and mud, to add to the effect that it was conserving the lucrative fossil fuels that he had learned about the week prior. Except, as it turned out, the girl sitting three tables away had already proposed that very idea to their teacher, who laughed and patted the girl’s head with pride, exclaiming, “How innovative! And so young, too!”

He held a grudge against the girl for the rest of the school year. In hindsight, she had done nothing wrong, but he felt as though he was cheated from becoming the next Albert Einstein. 

Then in his last year of high school, his math teacher had decided to tangent during the lecture about the history of Calculus: how it was discovered independently by two different mathematicians, but the purpose that it served and the end result were both the same. At the time, Minho could barely grasp the concept of an integral or the steps to take the derivative of anything but a polynomial function. He had no idea how someone could invent these mind-blowing things.

He still reflects on that specific piece of information occasionally, thinking how absurd it must have been when these mathematicians felt as though they had made an incredible breakthrough in the field only to realize that someone else was doing the same thing all along. Even more astounding, they hadn’t invented anything, but simply discovered what already existed, making it privy to the rest of the world upon revelation. But he’d digress.

It is early in the morning in New York City. Even though he’s succumbed to following Jisung’s schedule, it is certainly on the earlier side of things. Jisung was a late sleeper and an even later riser, but he never knew just how severe Jisung’s circadian rhythm was. Jisung proudly declared himself a night owl any moment he had the chance to, but Minho believes that if Jisung was to go to sleep at four or five in the morning, then he was no different than the morning larks of the general population. 

Today was out of the ordinary. Jisung had woken up at 8 a.m. to his alarm blaring _Knock Knock_ by Twice. Minho had stirred awake as well, even before Jisung heard his own alarm. But instead of watching the younger hit snooze—which was how these things usually played out—Jisung immediately sprung out of bed with a grin on his face, yelling about how they were to not waste any time while on vacation because they had plenty of time to waste once they were back home.

Jisung proceeded to drag him to Central Park, with his fingers wrapped around Minho’s wrist. They walked past the morning rush, which was slightly worse than the normal rush of people. Granted, the city was cleverly dubbed ‘The City That Never Sleeps,’ exactly like the personality of a special somebody. He wonders if that is part of the reason Jisung had chosen this place as their first destination, but he didn’t have any more time to ponder the idea before they reached the entrance of Central Park, with the lush green spanning acres past the gate, so sharply contrasting the industrialized architecture of the rest of the city.

The park reminds him of Songdo Central Park, right outside of Seoul, which he had visited with Jisung a couple years ago. That was not a surprise, he supposes, with the park in Incheon inspired from the parks of New York. Even the namesake paid homage to New York, and he scoffs at how unoriginal the city planners were with that one. But again, as no one thing in the world is original or unique, he can’t fault anyone at all. It is just part of the human condition.

Jisung is currently walking—no, now he’s skipping—down the pavement gleefully, with Minho in tow close behind. People generally do not skip past the tender age of twelve, but it is something that Jisung has recently gotten into after reading an article in a fitness newsletter. He had forwarded said article to Minho, outlining how skipping was less tiring than running, more efficient than walking, but still contained the benefits of each. It made Minho seriously consider for a solid three minutes on whether or not he should start skipping as well. But after the fourth minute of contemplation, he was struck with a sense of secondhand embarrassment at the horrific image of himself skipping to work while bystanders watched with amused concern.

Even if Minho can’t stand the idea of skipping in public, he has to admit that when Jisung does it, it is adorable. The black platform Dr. Martens that Jisung is wearing paired with his overflowing energy is an odd but welcome sight, and he has a bubbly feeling watching Jisung enjoy himself. 

“Hey, Lee Minho!” Jisung shouts. He’s prancing backwards now, and his eyes barely open from how wide he’s smiling. “Get over here, old man.”

“Who are you calling old man?” Minho grouses. A couple of the pedestrians turn their heads towards him, but he pays them no mind, with eyes only for the man in front of him. He jogs towards Jisung, who is still sashaying in reverse. Farther ahead is a couple standing by the benches, blind to the world around them, and a vision of a crash flashes before his eyes. Picking up the pace, Minho begins to run, his shoes slapping the sidewalk, catching up with the oblivious man child and jerking Jisung back with a tight grip before Minho’s omen can materialize. 

“You’re almost t—” Jisung suddenly notices the couple behind him, immediately turning around and apologizing profusely. He even offers a quick bow, which leaves the couple looking slightly confused, but they mirror the gesture and drift away, leaving an apologetic Jisung and a panting Minho sitting on the bench by themselves.

“Watch where you're going,” Minho snaps once he’s able to catch his breath. He is bent out of shape from even running ten feet, and the July heat doesn’t help, but all he hopes is that Jisung doesn’t take note of how unfit he is. 

“Sorry hyung, I didn’t notice.” Jisung replies, swinging his legs up and down like a child caught stealing candy. It’s cute. “Luckily you saved me, right?” 

Minho hums and legitimately takes in their surroundings for the first time this morning. The only words he has to describe it are _green_ and _greener._ Living in a megalopolis his entire life, the last time he saw this many plants might have been ten years ago, when he had moved to his grandparents’ house in Daegu during summer vacation. Ironically enough, he’s in another megalopolis now, the home of gray skyscrapers and black-top roads, but every city has their gems. 

This park happens to be one of them.

From the corner of his eyes, he catches Jisung doing the same thing, except Jisung is extremely blatant with his gawking. He turns his head from side to side, eyes sparkling in awe at the grand archway of elm trees above them. The verdant leaves coupled with the lusciousness of the grass makes the viridescent world look endless. 

Jisung suddenly rises up onto his feet, reaching an arm out to Minho, who looks at it with concealed skepticism. 

“So I won’t run into anyone again,” Jisung explains abashedly, so Minho grabs onto his hand, intertwining their fingers together as Jisung leads the way once again. This time, they both move along at a leisurely pace. 

“Sometimes I think you just want an excuse to hold my hand,” Minho smirks at Jisung. The younger glares, eyes narrowed in a challenge. Jisung simultaneously attempts to free his hand from Minho’s grip. He succeeds in doing so and picks up his pace so that he is now several feet in front of Minho, but Minho is quicker in catching up this time. He speedwalks towards Jisung and takes a hold of two of his fingers. 

But now, Jisung doesn’t put up much of a fight, eagerly allowing for Minho to revert back to their original position. “Chasing after me, huh?” Jisung smiles smugly. “Does that make me Cinderella?”

“Only if I’m the evil stepmother,” Minho says nonchalantly. Jisung rolls his eyes in response. 

This is the second day of their vacation together. Minho looks skyward again at the crowns of the trees, broad and imposing, standing tall for decades upon decades. He already knows the next eight days will be memories in his life he will want to relive forever.

…

When the airplane landed, the first thing out of Jisung’s mouth was, “Can we go get something to eat?”

Minho ruffled his hair, leaving Jisung pouting in the stiff airplane seat that denied comfort from everybody. 

“Not now, Sungie,” Minho had responded, because he knew that ‘something to eat’ was not just a quick snack at one of the fast-food chains scattered around the airport. Rather, Jisung would have wanted to check off something in his mental list of stops. The clock on his phone read 10:49 p.m., and while not particularly late in the grand scheme of things, they had been on a plane for more than half a day’s worth of time. Minho was certain that he would be out like a light once his head hit the pillow. Even though one of his natural talents was the ability to fall asleep anytime, that didn’t translate into falling asleep anywhere. Cars made for a decent nap, and sometimes buses too, but never airplanes.

Jisung was the same, and although Minho had caught him attempting to doze off multiple times on his shoulder, he didn’t think that Jisung achieved any substantial rest either. 

“We will tomorrow,” Minho whispered as a promise, tracing circles into Jisung’s thigh. At that moment, the rest of the passengers around them had erupted into chaos wrestling with the overhead bins trying to retrieve their carry-on luggage. 

Last night seems like ages ago now, but they’ve finally arrived at the quaint restaurant specializing in Chinese cuisine that Jisung had been screeching about nonstop when they were still home. Something about ‘the experience’ is what Jisung had coined it as, and Minho promptly rolled his eyes. But they’re here, and he doesn’t really have any complaints because his own anticipation was increasing as a result of Jisung’s excitement. Then again, he never does have any complaints when he’s with Jisung and goes along with Jisung’s antics; they were more of a front than anything of substance. 

This restaurant was one of those places tucked away in a corner of the city and advertised as a local treasure, something that tourists would never find unless they dug deep. It doesn’t shock Minho that Jisung’s found a place like this. After all, this was the same person who has been planning this trip since he was sixteen and has had an unhealthy obsession with travel bloggers since he was twenty-one. 

Jisung yanks on the door. His first attempt is feeble when the door gets caught on the hinge. On the second attempt, it swings wide open, and they both step into the restaurant. The place is lit up with yellow fluorescent lights, and the brightness makes Minho’s eyes hurt. Then he catches sight of Jisung’s smile, which was so much brighter.

After slapping his credit card in Jisung’s palm, he wanders off to find an empty table while trusting Jisung’s judgment on what to order. The wallpaper is slightly faded at the edges, the colors washed out with time, and the cushions on the chairs have seen better days. Typical of a hole-in-the-wall eatery, there are only about three tables in total, with a wooden platform nailed into the wall serving as another eating location, but he chooses the one farthest away from the door and waits. 

He’s been to his fair share of places like this back in Seoul, becoming friendly enough with the restaurant owners that they would greet him by name and ask him how he was doing whenever he visited. Yet somehow, it feels more home-like here, with the cherry-stained wood tables and chairs, worn down tile flooring and overhead lights. He almost prefers it, even if he is in a foreign country where he doesn’t speak the language. 

Jisung eventually joins Minho at the table, balancing plastic bowls in both of his hands, paper wrapped chopsticks balanced on top of the bowls. The bowl itself contains hand-pulled noodles, covered in fragrant red sauce that smells like a mixture of roasted meat and peppercorns. He’s left speechless staring at the food, his stomach growling and mouth watering, and now he understands. 

“Looks good, right?” Jisung supplies for him.

“Yeah, it does,” Minho nods. Jisung places the bowl in front of him, motioning for him to dig in. So he does, taking a hold of the chopsticks and sliding the paper off. He makes a clean break between them, but still struggles for a little while to get the feeling right in his hands, the airy wood sliding around in his fingers, until he finally has what he deems as an adequate bite and begins to eat.

They sit in silence, both digging into their respective meals. Minho’s too distracted to make conversation, and he supposes that Jisung is too, with his cheeks full of food. Not that he minds, this was their usual routine when eating out, just living comfortably in each other’s presence. 

“Here, hyung,” Jisung says eventually, chopsticks in his hand as he digs into his food for a bite. Jisung then shoves the chopsticks inside of Minho’s mouth, taking another bite for himself right afterwards. Minho has to admit that the food is delicious, not incredibly different from his own order, but still different nonetheless. Milder, because Jisung was never one for spicy food, and maybe a greater aftertaste of scallion, if nothing else. 

“It’s good,” he exclaims, once he swallows his exceptionally large bite. 

“It is,” Jisung agrees. He proceeds to repeat the same motion, picking up more from his bowl to feed to Minho. 

Minho eagerly takes it from him, closing his mouth around the utensil and biting down on whatever Jisung has given him. Except this time, an unpleasant and pungent taste fills his mouth, one that would be delectable only in a small dose. He scrunches his entire face, suppressing the urge to spit it out. But instead, he forces himself to chew through and swallow the abnormally large chunk of ginger that Jisung has just fed him, before cleansing his palette with a gulp of ice water and sensing relief.

“I actually hate you—” he starts to say, but he’s cut off by the sound of Jisung’s laughter.

“No, you don’t,” Jisung says, his lips lifted up with a grin of amusement. 

“Yes, I do,” he retorts, wiping away at his lips with a napkin. “You don’t deserve my love.”

“I knew it!” Jisung shrieks. “So you do love me.” 

“It’s a hypothetical.”

“That’s not what hypothetical means.”

“Well, you still don’t deserve my love,” Minho clicks his tongue but it’s feigned in annoyance. “Doesn’t matter whether you already had it or not.”

Jisung sticks out his tongue, stained red from chili peppers. 

…

Minho stupidly trusts Jisung for a plethora of things. He wouldn’t trust Jisung to take care of his apartment in check should he leave for an extended length of time—not a personal attack on Jisung, he just doesn’t trust people easily—but somehow, he just knows that he would trust Jisung with his life. 

This time around, he trusts Jisung because he’s the only one with adequate English comprehension between the two. But Jisung was never blessed with a sense of direction, and following their visit to the restaurant, he leads them somewhere that _looks_ right. Yet after ten minutes on the subway, Minho comes to the gut-wrenching realization that they’ve been going in the direction opposite of their hotel this entire time. 

“Jisung,” Minho grits his teeth and pokes him on the side. 

“Yeah?” Jisung looks up innocently from his phone with curious eyes, softening Minho’s frustration slightly. 

“We’re lost,” he exhales, in the calmest manner possible. They don’t need to freak out in a foreign country. “We need to get off at the next stop.” 

“No?” Jisung furrows his brows. “I double checked.” He quickly opens the maps app on his phone. Minho watches as Jisung’s eyes widen and his mouth pouts into an ‘o’ shape as their avatar on the map moves further and further from where they need to be. 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. “I could’ve sworn it was right.”

“We’re fine,” Minho reassures him. “We’ll be fine. We’ll get off at the next stop and find out where we need to go.”

Jisung visibly gulps and nods, gripping onto Minho’s shoulder so hard that his knuckles turn white. Minho pries Jisung’s hand off and holds it instead, squeezing tightly so that it will calm Jisung down.

He had an instinctual feeling beforehand that the two of them riding the subway was not going to work out exactly as planned. Jisung had rationalized it by pointing out that they always rode the subway when they were home, so how different could it be? 

Frankly, Jisung had been correct. There weren’t many different ways a subway station could operate, but Minho was the one who usually acted as their resident navigator on trips. New York was out of the picture for him. All he could do was assist Jisung in any manner possible. And if Jisung wanted the experience of a “native New Yorker,” then he’ll let him indulge in that. 

So here they are. 

A little lost. 

But that’s okay.

The subway starts to play an automated voice over the intercom, which Minho recognizes as the signal for the next stop. He clutches Jisung’s hand firmly and leads him out of the doors and up a flight of stairs so that they’re in a more peaceful area. 

“I’m sorry, hyung. I didn’t mean for us to get lost,” Jisung mumbles, his eyes trained on the ground. His heart clenches; he doesn’t want Jisung to have to apologize. As if Minho could even be mad at him for one second when he had the expression of a kicked puppy. 

“Let’s just figure this out, okay?” Minho assures him. He takes his phone out of his pocket and types in the hotel’s address. It’s only a thirty minute walk, an hour at most. They’ll be fine. No need to overreact. 

He glances over the route one more time before showing it to Jisung, who bobs his head guiltily and follows Minho out of the station. 

It’s a little after 10 p.m., which means that the sun had just set less than an hour ago. The artificial lights coming from the storefronts create their own daylight, and they begin to stroll in tandem with each other down the sidewalk. There are crowds of people on the street that pass them by, the voices of strangers harmonizing with the blaring car horns. It provides some background noise, and it makes Minho feel as if it’s too early to go back and wind down. But he has been awake since 8 a.m., and they still have two days left in New York to do whatever they want. That’s more than enough time. 

“It’s getting late,” Minho yawns, the alertness he had from their subway scare wearing down, the exhaustion beginning to creep onto his otherwise conscious body. 

“Soon,” Jisung responds.” Soon we’ll be able to sleep.” He cracks a small smile, one that conveys that he relates to how Minho feels, but they have to endure this walk before they can sink under the covers.

 _It’s all just another part of the experience,_ Minho thinks. Once again with Jisung’s whole ‘experience’ shtick, doing as much as they can in the short period of time that they have. 

Minho thinks that it’s worn off on him too—the idea of an experience—and will gladly go along with whatever that entails.

Jisung slows down his pace and points impishly towards a billboard on the side of a building. It displays a male model staring sensually at the camera, biting his lip and stroking his chin in an exaggerated manner.

“That could be you, hyung,” he jokes. “I bet you would look sexy doing that.” Jisung does his own rendition on the pose, setting his chin between two fingers and attempting to cross his legs in a sitting position before losing his balance. He clutches onto Minho for support and throws in a wink or two while doing so. He looks absolutely ridiculous for attempting to hold this position in the middle of a crowded street while looking nothing like the man in the picture. 

“How do I look?”

Minho chortles at the visual. “I think you should be the model instead.” 

“You think?” Jisung wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “I got street scouted by an idol agency once when I was fifteen.”

“Uh huh,” he giggles. They have been friends since Jisung was eleven and Minho thirteen, and Jisung had certifiably boasted about anything possible during his teenage years. “So how come I’ve never heard about that?” 

“You just don’t listen to me, I guess,” Jisung tells him. He points to another flashing billboard that rotates between pictures of a famous idol group Minho’s forgotten the name of. “Look, that,” he begins to say, “that could’ve been me.” 

“Could you imagine doing their choreography?” Minho bursts into loud guffaws when he imagines Jisung dancing. “You can’t just do what you do at the club on a stage.”

“I’m sure I could learn,” Jisung scowls, his jaw jutted forward in a pout. “And I used to write lyrics too, come on.” He lays on the whine in his voice thick. “Maybe in another life I could be.”

“Maybe in another life,” Minho agrees noncommittally. 

There’s a forty-five minute time period from the subway station back to the hotel. By the time they reach their room, the tiredness has fully settled in through his body. He kicks off his shoes, sending them flying somewhere across the carpet that tomorrow’s Minho will worry about, and peels the socks off of his feet. Jisung is the first to flop onto his bed, tucking his legs into his chest and turning into a tight ball, with only half the comforter covering his body. Minho follows suit. Belatedly, he realizes that he should go freshen up before falling asleep, but his body is like lead, and he can’t find the will to heave himself off of the mattress for that. 

Maybe later, but for now, he turns to face Jisung lying on the other bed. He looks impossibly tiny, and if Minho didn’t pay enough attention, he would’ve believed that Jisung had shut down in slumber already. But he does notice the glossy sliver of his eyes, nearly closed but not quite. 

“Today was good, hyung,” Jisung mutters. There’s a continuous whirring of sirens from outside of their window. His voice is faint and barely audible above the noise, but Minho can still hear it. “We were finally able to make this dream come true.” 

“That’s what happens when we’re adults with stable jobs,” he chuckles, finding the strength to roll over his mattress to sit on Jisung’s. Minho cards his fingers through his hair. “Go to sleep, Sung.”

“Yeah,” Jisung offers him a soft smile. “Good night, Min,” he says, dropping the honorifics all together. And then: “Thank you for coming with me.”

“Good night. We’ll do whatever you want tomorrow,” Minho eventually mumbles before making his way back to his own bed. He doesn’t know if he heard, the sound of Jisung's breathing already calm and steady.

…

Minho would go to the edge of the world as long as it was with Jisung. 

He wouldn’t admit that to anyone; admitting it to himself, even if just in thought, was already a feat in itself.

But the more he considers the thought, the more it solidifies into a fact. 

Jisung loves to travel. When they were both younger, Jisung would visit Malaysia every summer for two weeks, bringing back souvenirs and snacks to share. Minho would listen to Jisung animatedly retell stories of almost getting devoured by a crocodile or of trying foods that they couldn’t find back home. 

And by now, they had been all over South Korea, taking most of the trips during their college years and applying to study and exchange programs in the same cities during breaks. Those were the days of gathering up spare change just to spend a weekend in the town over. But the ultimate goal had always been New York City, because Jisung’s favorite show as a teenager was set there. Minho agreed without any consideration. After that, it had been years of planning, saving up, and on Jisung’s end, numerous magazine collages and vision boards. 

_We were finally able to make this dream come true._ That’s what Jisung had said right before he fell asleep. It seemed like such a faraway dream when they had been in high school, and it still felt like one even just a year ago. And even as Minho breathes in air from the city he’s been chasing after with Jisung for almost a decade now, he’s slightly shaken with how unreal it all is. 

As the old saying goes: _If all of your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?_ Minho thinks briefly about that, but does not doubt any more. 

He really would go to the edge of the world—or anywhere, really—as long as it was with Jisung. 

…

Their one day of waking up early does not carry over into the next day. 

Jisung’s alarms go off in succession. The first one is at 8 a.m. like before, a loud rendition of _Knock Knock_ vibrating through the room. The second alarm is at 8:30, when _Likey_ blows through the speakers at full volume. At 9:00, the chorus of _Yes or Yes_ plays at what Minho believes to be the loudest possible setting. 

Lastly at 9:30, there is no Twice song. Instead, the default alarm tone starts blaring and Minho wants to drive his fist into the wall, and maybe into the unwitting owner of the phone too.

“Jisung, for fuck’s sake,” Minho groans into his pillow. “Turn that _off.”_

Jisung mumbles back an apology and then something else that Minho can’t quite understand. Minho’s brain is too fogged up to comprehend anything, and he falls back into a deep slumber. 

When he actually wakes up, it’s to the sunrays streaming in through the window and into his eyes. He attempts to block it out with a blanket, and then his pillow. He gives up, blinking open his eyes in a daze. The first thing he sees is Jisung, already dressed and sitting in the loveseat while wearing an oversized button up and joggers. At first, he mistakes this for being a dream because Jisung is actually awake before Minho even has the chance to brush his teeth. Maybe he’s losing his charm; the all-nighters he had been pulling at the office before this trip were catching up to him. Or maybe, he greatly underestimated Jisung’s ability to not stay in bed all day. There was probably something in the vacation water. 

When he blinks, Jisung comes into his line of focus. His hair is still damp—presumably from the shower—and strands of soft hair are falling in front of his eyes. It might be one of Minho’s favorite sides of Jisung to see, as odd as it may sound. Perhaps it just feels safe and domestic, and he smiles to himself slightly. 

“You’re awake.”

“Nice observation,” Jisung scoffs. “You’re not.”

“Be quiet. I deserve to sleep.” He yawns as he looks up at the ceiling.

“And that you do, but you can sleep at home.”

“Oh, shut up.” He rubs his eyes, taking his time before peeling off the covers. “What are we doing today?”

“I wanted to go to the Empire State Building,” Jisung glances up at him. “How do you feel about that?”

“Isn’t that a bad idea?” He raises an eyebrow as he takes in the words. He has always had a troubling fear of heights. It’s something that he’s never been able to completely grow out of. He can handle, perhaps even enjoy, things like roller coasters and amusement park drop towers. That’s not the case when it comes to tall buildings, however backwards that may be, with nothing but a flimsy metal railing between him and the edge. Jisung was the same way, clutching onto his dear life whenever he was lifted above ground.

“Why would that be a bad idea?”

“Because, heights?” He provides. Jisung stares at him blankly before bursting into a hearty laugh heartily, clutching at his stomach while his gasps fill the room. 

“Why are you laughing?” Minho frowns. Jisung has always known that he could barely stand on anything thirty feet above ground. “What’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry,” Jisung says, wiping away at the tears. “It’s just,” he snickers again before composing himself for a second time. “I meant like, go to the building. We don't have to go inside at all.”

“Oh.” He’s dumbfounded. 

“I did look though. If you want to go onto the observation deck, it’s not out in the open. There’s glass panes surrounding the floor,” Jisung declares, leaping over to his bed and showing him a picture that he’s saved onto his phone. “See, you’ll be safe.”

“Oh.” He says again. Of _course_ Jisung made sure that it was somewhere that would make Minho feel a little more secure.

“So,” Jisung looks up at him with sparkling eyes. “What do you think?”

 _No,_ Minho wants to say. _He would rather swim with sharks than get on top of that building._ He knows that this is Jisung’s way of buttering him up, to get him to do something he normally wouldn’t even ponder. But the truth is that he’s utterly powerless to all prospects when it comes to Jisung. 

“Well…” He looks to Jisung on the side of him, whose eyes are twinkling in anticipation, and tries not to let his nerves show. “Aren’t you supposed to be afraid of heights?”

“You exchange the fear for experience,” he says. Then there’s more laughter, Jisung’s shoulders shaking up and down before returning his attention to Minho. “Or at least, I _think_ that’s how it works.”

“That’s definitely not how it works,” he ruffles Jisung’s hair, causing him to frown. “But okay,” he answers after a moment’s contemplation. “If I die, it’s on you.”

…

Before making their way to the Empire State Building, they make a pit stop at a diner for lunch. For the height of lunch hour, there is a surprising lack of people inside, except the several regulars filtering in and out, but he’s not complaining. He and Jisung would both rather not deal with an influx of people if they don't have to. Sitting in a booth closest to the window, they idly wait for their orders. There’s not much deviation from the usual street hubbub, just the usual passersby, cars, and taxis. 

“These decorations are certainly...” Minho spins around the American Flag in the vase in front of him between his thumb and forefinger after the waitress leaves with their orders. There are glittery red and blue streamers pouring out from the sides. “They’re certainly patriotic.”

“It’s July 4th, hyung. American Independence Day,” Jisung chooses that moment to shoot Minho an easygoing smile. “It’s supposed to be patriotic.”

“Hmm,” Minho replies, gingerly setting the centerpiece back in the middle of the table. “Good for them.”

“Good for them,” Jisung echoes. Then, he stares off into space for a moment before looking right at Minho and— “Do you wanna watch the fireworks tonight?” 

He shifts on his side of the booth and adds, “They’ll be pretty.” 

Minho likes fireworks. Even if he hasn’t purposely been to a fireworks show since he was in middle school, he would not be opposed at all to seeing one now.

“Or not, I guess,” Jisung’s voice cuts through his thoughts. “It’s okay if you... don’t want to. We could always do something else?”

“No, let’s go,” Minho says, taking a sip of his water. “It sounds fun.”

The smile he gets in response is so blinding that Minho has to physically avert his eyes.

Eventually the food comes, and Jisung grins at the waitress as a thanks. The waitress flushes a bright pink, stuttering something before leaving to wait at another table. Jisung doesn’t seem to take note of it, but Minho notices. Jisung always has had the capability to make anyone like him at the drop of a hat. He’s cheerful and a self-proclaimed “moodmaker.” Even when Jisung had pissed off someone or something, it was hard for anyone to be resentful for too long. 

“Hyung, here.” Jisung holds out some food with his hand. Minho can’t say anything before he’s met with a mouthful of potato chips. Once he’s done chewing, Jisung offers him another bite that he can’t refuse. 

“That waitress likes you,” Minho finally says once Jisung is done with shoving food into his mouth. And it doesn't even come as a shock to Minho that someone could fall half in love with Jisung in a place like this, a poorly lit and run-down diner that smells like oil grease, potato wedges and dill pickles. 

“No she doesn’t,” Jisung stammers, almost losing his grip on his sandwich. “If anything, she was looking at you. You’re handsome, hyung, don’t sell yourself short!”

Minho takes a chip and shoves it into Jisung’s mouth, preventing him from saying anything else. Then he drops his head back down, clumsily spreading the potato chips into his sandwich before he looks back up. He’s fast enough to catch the look in Jisung’s eyes, but it quickly morphs into something like exasperation.

“Why can’t you ever be serious? I’m trying to give you a compliment!” Jisung pouts.

“I am being serious,” Minho says, but he can’t help the grin that’s steadily spreading across his face. He finds himself still locking eyes with Jisung, who mirrors Minho’s smile with a familiar one of his own.

“But see, I mean like that, hyung,” Jisung beams. “I love your smile.”

…

Perhaps he’s made a mistake by letting Jisung sweet talk his way into Minho riding up to the 102nd floor of the Empire State Building. 

And by mistake, he means a horrible, terrible, awful blunder that the knots in his stomach are doing a great job reminding him of.

He wipes his clammy palms on his pants, which accomplishes next to nothing, and curses under his breath. They’re still only on the elevator. Jisung is rubbing his back and holding his moist hands while Minho’s teeth chatter. It doesn’t have any effect calming down the unpleasant roiling in the pit of his stomach, but Jisung’s presence calms enough of his nerves so at least he maintains consciousness. 

“We can leave,” Jisung volunteers once the elevator stops on the 83nd floor. There’s a wrinkle between Jisung’s brows that Minho wishes would go away, but he can hardly worry about Jisung’s concealed disappointment over the uncontrollable shaking of his hands. “If you’re not comfortable, let’s just go back down.”

“No,” he murmurs into the shell of Jisung’s ear, lips quivering. “You paid so much money for us to go. I’ll... be fine.”

“It doesn’t matter how much I paid,” Jisung retorts. Jisung’s obvious concern for him causes guilt to join the fear churning in his stomach. He should not have to pass up adventures just because Minho is too afraid for them. “You know that your comfort comes first.”

“I’m serious,” he grumbles, quelling the urge to vomit. “I told you it’ll be fine. I’m a grown adult.” _And I don’t want to hold you back._

Once the elevator dings, announcing their arrival on their designated floor, Jisung wraps his arms around his shoulders, guiding him off slowly, one foot at a time, which is slightly awkward since he’s a smidge taller than Jisung. Taking several deep breaths, he leans against a pillar and feels his chest expand and contract, before nudging out of Jisung’s hold. 

He’s an imposter as he tiptoes towards the edge of the room—a sheep in wolf’s clothing, a twist on the classic trope. The observation deck reminds him of something straight out of a dystopian novel: clean, empty, and modern. He still can register the slight jitteriness seizing his body and freezing his hands, but steps forward and forces his hands to rest against one of the window frames. Icy to the touch, it grounds him slightly. Then he settles, relaxing his shoulders, and he’s not as much on edge as he was before.

Jisung arrives next to him shortly thereafter, peering out the windows with glee. He pushes down on the glass, the realization that he shouldn’t have done that instantly dawning upon him. Frantically, he rubs his sleeve back and forth on the window, only succeeding in smudging it. Amused, Minho takes Jisung’s hand before he can exacerbate the blotches on the glass.

“Do you feel okay?” 

Minho bites his lip, the pressure clearing his head. “Yeah, I’m okay.” Both of his feet are firmly planted on the floor while Jisung’s hand is in his, swinging their arms slightly back and forth. He takes a deep breath, the sinking feeling dissipating from the pit of his stomach. 

He looks out at the view, akin to a Seoul diorama he saw in a museum on a field trip once. The model had been around twice the size of his dinner table. Built with miniature legos, it depicted every building he’s ever seen in the city, plus the ones he’d missed. How striking it is to feel like he could merely slip his hand through the glass and rearrange the buildings however he wanted, or move the cars to a different street and send them driving off into the distance.

“Have you ever seen one of those miniature Lego replicas of Seoul?” he asks Jisung, because if he asks a question, it takes his mind off of the fact that they are still very high off the ground. He squeezes Jisung’s hand, his stomach doing a slight flip while doing so.

But he’s not as jittery as he thought he would be, now that he’s actually able to take in the sight. Maybe owing it to overexposure, they’ve been here for longer than he would typically last, especially on a surface this high… _not_ because he likes the way Jisung’s fingers slot into his, tying him back onto the earth without any fear.

“Yeah, we all went on the museum tour in middle school,” Jisung returns. “It looks just like that, right?”

“Yep,” he says thoughtfully. It truly does. He takes another look at the city: the buildings are in a variety of beige tones; while Seoul undoubtedly has some key differences from New York, the energy is all too similar. The city that never sleeps is starting to feel like his second home.

And that’s strange, because he certainly shouldn’t feel at _home_ in a place he’s been in for less than a week. But he eyes the buildings, all in different shades and hues, watches as people scurry down the crosswalk, and he feels so achingly alive. It’s a profound sense of _being_ that he’s unsure of how to put into words. When he looks to the side, he meets Jisung’s eyes that have a familiar mirth glimmering in them. With Jisung pressed next to his side, he closes his eyes, the afterimage of the skyline printed in the darkness behind his eyelids. He feels at home, though he would feel at home even if the city silhouette was entirely different. Even if Seoul and New York City had nothing in common, he would still feel at home. This he knows with a startling certainty.

The reason why he _truly_ feels at home squeezes his hand once, like the jump of a heartbeat. 

…

As dusk approaches, they take a taxi to the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge to see the fireworks. Jisung hands him an Airpod and queues up his lofi music. It’s tranquil and repetitive (but in a good way), and nearly cancels out how busy the streets always are. There’s barely any time to wind down, but then Jisung’s leaning against him and he forgets the direction his train of thought was even going. 

Fourteen minutes in the taxi tick by as Minho alternates between sneaking glances at Jisung and the street view out the window, colors blurring into a washed out rainbow. As they close the cab doors and exit, a throng of people is already starting to form. They stay behind the herd clustered at the riverside, and nobody spares them a second glance. In their own bubble, they are secluded from the rest of the world where their footsteps lie.

“When do they start?” Minho asks. The breeze whips their hair in all directions and the cold evening air brushes past him. He huddles closer to Jisung for body heat while reprimanding himself for not bringing a jacket. Even though it is unpredictably chilly for the middle of summer, he nonetheless has his regrets. 

“Should be about now,” Jisung mutters, tapping away at his phone. He slips it into his pocket and looks up at the blank sky lying in wait. Then, as per usual, Jisung slips his hand with Minho’s—interlocking their fingers gradually—and rests his head against his shoulder, Jisung’s hair ticklish and warm against his neck. 

Minho looks down, but Jisung isn’t even glancing up at him. But before he can say anything, the pitch black canvas of the sky is illuminated rapidly, a burst of red and orange slicing through the night. The fireworks explode, one by one at first, and then crowd the frame rapidly—crimson, white, then royal blue. Minho watches in awe as the colors fade out, replaced by a surge of glittering gold and sparkling green. As the fireworks streak down the sky, afterglow tailing them, he briefly closes his eyes in respite, echoes of the brilliant pinpoints of light still flashing. He opens them again, drinking in the painting across the heavens, because it’s one thing to see pictures of fireworks plastered on the internet, but it’s another thing to _see_ a real fireworks show because—

It’s stunning.

The crowd begins to _ooh_ and _ahh_ at every new burst of color, as more and more shades rain down in the sky, and Minho suddenly understands why Jisung was so adamant that they watch it. He’s transfixed at the sight, at how many different shapes and hues there are, at how the river casts back the light, at the hush that befalls the entire crowd, all of them united in awe at the breathtaking display before them. He turns again to look at Jisung, with the whole display of rainbow flames blazing in the reflection of his irises and it’s beautiful.

How beautiful it is, for people to crave so desperately the warmth and thrill of light, that they would seek to recreate it in all the colors nature has to offer and more, then to share it with their friends in the hopes of spreading joy to everyone. How beautiful it is, that people are so devastatingly unoriginal that they all share the same sentiment in the striking beauty of hundreds and thousands of lights brightening up the dark of night—

He doesn’t think he’ll ever see anything more beautiful than this. 

And Jisung curves his lips into a smile, pushing his cheekbones to the sky with a smile so dazzlingly illuminated—so stunningly big and radiant and heart-shaped—and looks up at him with fresh, round eyes. Minho is helplessly captivated, storing the image inside of his mind for future reference.

Jisung pinches Minho’s wrist in that moment, causing him to flinch back from the pain. He winces, massaging the area before frowning daggers at Jisung, who looks mischievously delighted. 

“Sorry, hyung,” Jisung says, his eyes folding into gentle crescents, “you were staring.”

...

When Minho opens his eyes on their last morning in New York, the sky is dreary and gray. Jisung’s bed is strangely empty and there is a glaring lack of bubbly pop music serving as an alarm. There aren’t any footsteps coming from the bathroom, so he digs around the blankets for his phone. His screen shows several notifications, unopened messages from Jisung sent ten minutes ago, saying that he was going to get breakfast for them at the coffee shop down the street. 

He lets out a breath and shoves the comforter off his body. His phone lights up right when he gets out of bed, the screen displaying Jisung’s contact photo. He reaches across the mattress where he had left it and hits the _accept call_ button. 

He can make out some indistinct chattering in the background. “Hyung, please come get me,” Jisung says, unnervingly calm.

That immediately spikes Minho’s heart rate. “Where are you? What happened?”

“I...” Jisung starts. The pause stretching into a long silence does nothing to slow Minho’s rapid heartbeat. “I’ll explain more later, but I’m at the café right down the street. We pass by it every day, the one with the coffee cup logo. And,” Jisung chuckles nervously, “I can’t walk, so... please hurry.”

Minho doesn’t think twice before swiping the room key off of the table, slipping his shoes on haphazardly and running out the front door. The elevators suddenly are too slow, so he opts to take the stairs, slamming the doors open and racing down like a madman. Once he’s out of the hotel’s entrance, he sprints towards the intersection and down the crosswalk, nearly knocking into people at every step. 

He arrives at the coffee shop in a record time of six minutes, breathless and huffing for oxygen. Jisung is sitting on the other side of the window, scrolling through his phone as if it was just another ordinary day. Like he didn't practically give Minho a heart attack. Like he didn’t just call Minho to tell him he couldn’t walk. 

Minho inhales and exhales, feeling like a bull facing down a matador, before stepping inside and making a beeline towards Jisung. 

“What the _hell_ , Han Jisung,” he barks at the younger. “You can’t just say something like that!”

Jisung uses the table adjacent to him as leverage, pressing up onto his left foot while his right foot is kept suspended in the air. Minho shuffles closer, taking Jisung’s left arm and wrapping it around his neck so that he’s stable and able to stand up.

“I think I twisted my ankle,” Jisung grins sheepishly. “I tripped on something and I tried walking back, but it just hurts... a lot.” 

Minho sighs and motions for Jisung to get on his back. The boy jumps on, only using one foot as the boost, and Minho has to shift him around so that Jisung’s anchored there—no chance he’ll fall this time. 

Grunting with effort, Minho takes a begrudging step forward, nearly falling forward with the added deadweight. Jisung barely makes a noise, only holding on tighter. True to the stereotype, the native New Yorkers don’t stare, nor do they help hold open the door for him and his baggage. Kicking the door open with one foot, Minho eases out of the coffeeshop backwards before exiting back out onto the street. He is by no means a champion weightlifter, but the adrenaline in him allows him to staunchly make it, without tripping, back to the hotel. 

The lack of automatic doors at the hotel make Minho have a brief image of unleashing hell on the management, before he regains his focus and once again boots it open with his left foot, no easy feat thanks to the heavy weight of the gilded door. Finally making it indoors, he takes a breather as the cold sweat rolls down the sides of his face.

“Are you okay?”

Jisung nods imperceptibly, a small noise of affirmation along with it, so Minho pushes through the final leg of this excruciating journey and carries Jisung all the way back to their room, this time thankful for the slowness of the elevator so he can catch his breath again. Facing a heavy door for the third time now, Minho once again envisions screaming at supersonic levels at whoever designed the buildings in this godforsaken city before punting it open with the last of his strength, and at _long last_ , they’ve made it to room plate safe and intact. Then, he gently places Jisung on his bed. He notices that Jisung is wearing sneakers today instead of his usual platform boots—just his luck. 

Jisung stirs, and reaches down to untie the laces and toes off his shoes, showing his injured ankle in all its glory. It’s only slightly swollen, and if there was any bruising, it wouldn’t have set in this early. Minho swipes a towel from the bathroom and wipes off the embarrassing amount of sweat off his face, before snatching a couple pillows from his bed and stacking them on top of one another to make a makeshift platform for Jisung to rest his ankle on. He takes out his phone, using the translation app to make a call to the front desk for an ice pack, before flopping down next to Jisung on the bed, finally able to rest. 

“I twisted my ankle and I didn’t even get breakfast after all of that,” Jisung jokes. “Life despises me.” 

“You just twisted it. It’s okay,” he says as encouragement. He’s experienced a million and one ankle twists and sprains throughout his lifetime—because of his time in dance during college and from just being a clumsy individual on occasion—so he knows that it’s not a big deal, because he will definitely heal fast. In fact, Jisung will probably be close to healed by tomorrow.

But something in him rears its ugly head and screams regardless. About how he should’ve woken up earlier, about how he should have retrieved breakfast for them instead. How he should’ve accompanied Jisung instead of letting him go alone. He blames himself, because maybe this wouldn’t have happened if just one slightly different decision had altered the future. Then maybe something as insignificant as a twisted ankle wouldn’t be dampening their last day in New York. 

“But I ruined the trip,” Jisung whines. “It’s our last day here.” 

His voice sounds so remorseful to Minho. He doesn’t even know how he can get it through to Jisung that _it’s not his fault._

“I don’t mind. Do you still want breakfast?” Minho asks Jisung, who’s currently nuzzled in his side, half-hoping he’ll say no, because suddenly all Minho wants to do is take a very long nap 

“Please, Min, thank you,” he responds, and his eyelids flutter shut. 

He should’ve expected that. Minho pulls the fluffy comforter over Jisung’s waist and caresses his cheekbone slightly. Without thinking too deeply, he presses his lips on Jisung’s forehead before hauling himself off of the mattress.

“You’re kind, Min,” Jisung says, sounding exhausted and delirious. “You really are.” 

It’s the last thing Minho hears before slipping out into the hallway.

…

The first thing Minho does when he’s out of earshot is call the most responsible person he knows. He isn’t even aware of what time it is back in Seoul, but he’s itching to talk to someone before he spontaneously combusts. 

The phone rings once, twice, thrice; when he’s almost positive that he’s about to be sent to voicemail, a groggy voice greets him from his speaker.

“Hyung,” Changbin whines, the sheets are ruffling behind him, “it’s past midnight here.”

“When did you ever go to sleep at a reasonable time?” Minho quips, walking down the same street he had just hauled Jisung down. 

“Fair point,” Changbin acquiesces. “But what’s up? How’s New York with Jisung?”

To be fair, he doesn’t even know the answer to that question. So that’s exactly what he says.

“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair, his fingers a makeshift comb. His hair is tangled and knotty, but it doesn't even bother him, not now. 

“Why? Trouble in para—”

“I don’t know what to do,” he blurts, voice coming out frantic, cracking and fraying at the seams. He doesn’t like to be vulnerable, especially not in public, but there's no way to control the tears forming in his eyes.

He has to admit that the vacation has been going great so far. Everything was blissful—it was his and Jisung’s escape from the real world—but Jisung’s ankle injury broke that illusion. 

He crosses yet another intersection. He’s lost count of how many it’s been and can only hope that he’ll be able to eventually make it back to the hotel.

“Woah, woah,” Changbin says. “Let me go to another room. Seungmin’s sleeping right now.”

“You and your perfect little marriage,” Minho sighs. “How about you have some sympathy for the rest of us?”

“Don’t be like that, Minho.” His light tone sounds borderline threatening. “You wanna talk about what’s going on?”

“Jisung twisted his ankle, and I don’t know what to do.” It’s the simplest explanation he has to offer, that one sentence encapsulating everything that's happened in the last twenty-four hours. 

“Well, did you try the RICE method? You know, Rest, Ice, Compression, Eleva—”

“Yes, I know what RICE fucking stands for,” he snaps at Changbin, and he knows the attitude he’s giving him is unjustified, but he can’t stop himself. 

“Okay.” A beat. Minho can tell he is trying not to say outright, _“Why are you being such a bitch?”_ Instead, Changbin says, “Then what do you want me to say?” 

Minho feels the soreness in his muscles from earlier beginning to settle in. “I’m just stressed out, sorry.” 

Changbin clicks his tongue. Minho’s sure that if he was there to see Changbin, he would be shaking his head at him too.

“You know what you have to do, hyung. And you're gonna be fine. Jisung’s ankle will be fine, so stop stressing yourself out like this. It’s not healthy,” Changbin’s voice is authoritative, but he pauses to giggle before carrying on. “He can take care of himself too, he’s a big boy. An _adult._ You hear me?”

“I hear you.”

“So just enjoy the rest of the trip, and make me _jealous_ about it when you come back,” Changbin continues. “I better see some good pictures.”

…

He returns to their room thirty minutes later, with two bagels and two iced coffees. It’s a suspiciously long period of time to end up with food so mundane, but Jisung probably won’t ask any questions.

“Hey,” Jisung looks up from his notebook when he sees Minho enter. “What’d you get?”

“Bagels.” He holds up the paper bag. “And coffee.” 

“Yum.” Jisung opens his mouth with glee. Minho tears off a piece of the bagel and hand feeds it to Jisung, who grins in delight. “Thanks, hyung. Love you.”

Minho chokes on his spit and runs over to retrieve the coffees. He takes a generous sip, the liquid pushing down the lump in his throat. On the other side of him, Jisung’s notebook is sitting face up, with scribbles and doodles drawn all over it. The ink on the pages still looks wet, the black lines glistening over ruled paper. 

“What’re you writing?” He inquires. Jisung glances down at the notebook and lifts it to cover his face. 

“Got hit with some inspiration,” he says behind the cover. “Wanna hear?”

“Of course I do.” He adjusts his position so that he’s sitting in the center of the bed with his legs crossed, careful not to disturb Jisung’s ankle. 

“Okay, you might want to sit down for this one,” Jisung warns him. Minho points towards his lap, indicating that he’s clearly in compliance with Jisung’s ground rules. 

“I might sweep you off your feet with this. It’s my best yet, titled ‘ _Empire State of Mind.’_ ”

“I didn’t know I was friends with Alicia Keys,” he teases. Pokes at the side of Jisung’s calf just because he can. 

“Well you learn something new everyday.” Jisung turns back to his notebook. “Okay, it goes like this. _New York, concrete jungle where dreams are made of, there's nothing you can't do. Now you're in New Yo—”_

Minho shoves another piece of bagel—everything flavored with cream cheese—into Jisung’s gaping mouth. Jisung side eyes Minho before savoring the food. Minho offers another piece, but Jisung declines, pushing away his hand. He slaps the notebook shut and lies down flat on his back. 

“What were you actually writing?” Minho asks once he polishes off the remainder of his food. 

“It’s still something in the works, but you’ll be the first one to see it,” Jisung throws a sleazy wink worthy of a playboy in his direction.

“Well, I can’t wait.” 

The ice in the coffee has melted by now.

They’re quiet, but it’s not the type of silence that Minho enjoys. There’s still something left unsaid between them, and the tenseness of the air only increases as a result. He waits and waits for his brain to provide something to say, but the possible words scramble and get tangled on the tip of his tongue. The cool tones from the city fusing with the warm light from the lamps make everything more somber than it actually is.

Jisung is the one who breaks the silence first. “I’m sorry, hyung. I didn’t want to spend our last day like this. I ruined this, didn’t I?” It’s spoken more like a fact than a question.

Minho sighs and brushes Jisung’s bangs out of his face. He’s wearing an expression of pure guilt, and it causes Minho’s heart to painfully twist.

“I told you already that it's okay.” If he said it enough, he could definitely convince himself. 

He continues to run his fingers through Jisung’s hair, black and miraculously silky even after consecutive dye jobs. “You wanted to live like a true New Yorker, so what better way to do that than to do nothing?”

Jisung slaps him on the knee. He appears to be in a lighter mood now, but there’s still a hint of melancholy left on his face. 

“I’m not lying to you, Jisung,” Minho ventures. “I would never lie about something like this. It’s not your fault, and I seriously don’t care that we can’t go out today, because we still have half of our vacation left.” He pinches the apples of Jisung’s cheeks. “So don’t be so sad, okay? There’s still a lot to do.” He tries to sound as earnest as he can.

He returns to carding his fingers through Jisung’s hair mindlessly. Jisung’s more at ease, if the smile was any indication of it, and after some time, Minho crawls into the covers next to Jisung, letting the younger burrow next him like he always does.

☼

New York is an imposing grid of tall buildings and flashing lights upon nightfall, but Los Angeles is comforting. It’s warm, it’s sunny, and it’s more inviting than the east coast’s concrete jungle. 

If New York had always been Jisung’s dream destination, then Los Angeles was Minho’s. He’s always wanted to live in a sandy subtropical place by the ocean. Living in the boundary where the shore meets the sea roots him to the world—the boundlessness of the water beyond eye’s view stretching miles and miles, touching upon the swathe of beach that is a doormat to the mainland. This trip is his chance to really marvel at what he’s always wanted to enjoy.

He accomplishes some impressive shut-eye on the plane because he’s burnt out after Jisung’s movie marathon all-nighter. He wakes up in a haze when the cabin lights flicker on, and is fully jolted awake as the wheels hit the runway. Sitting next to him is Jisung, with his eyes barely open and headphones pulled over his ears as he watches some cooking show. He doesn’t look like he’s in any pain, which means that the healing is coming along nicely. The plane taxis into their gate, and Minho decides he will be positive about the rest of their vacation.

The house that Minho’s rented for the remainder of the week is owned by a Korean-American student who was away because of an exchange program for the rest of the summer, and they had been very open minded on pricing, even inclined to allow any willing tenant to haggle their way with a fair price. When the uber passes through the neighboring city, Santa Monica, and arrives at the house, they see the small size but sleek design typical of the area. Inside, with its contemporary designs, white tiles, and glass cabinets, and most importantly, its crucial location right next to the shore, Minho feels like he shouldn’t even be stepping a foot inside lest he break something. If this house were in Seoul, he knows neither he nor Jisung could afford it, not even if they pooled all their savings together. Thankfully they had managed to barter their way into a good deal for their time here, and Jisung is already transfixed by the decor. 

“Woah, hyung,” Jisung marvels. “How did you _find_ this place?” He hops to the nearest window, pressing his fingertips to the glass and gasping at the view. There’s the sand Minho loves so much, a soft shade of tan. Then, he understands why Jisung is so mesmerized: the water, its aquamarine engulfing the entire horizon. running on for miles. The sun is hitting the water at an angle where the waves dance, iridescent and glimmering under the light. 

“Never underestimate the power of Lee Minho,” he simply shrugs, throwing his jacket over his shoulder. 

…

There are times where he does wonder if Jisung is really _just_ a friend.

Of course, Jisung has been his best friend for more than half his life. He can’t even remember a time when the younger boy wasn’t attached with him at the hip. 

When Minho had met him for the first time, he had been shell shocked at how easy it was to get along with Jisung. It was like the last two puzzle pieces in a grand one-thousand puzzle set had finally found each other, as cliché as it was. Minho has never believed in any variation of the idea of soulmates, but he does believe that if there existed a red string of fate, it would lead him to Jisung every single time. 

There’s a reason why Jisung is the only friend he’s had for as long as a decade and a half. The rest of his friends from that time of his life have become all but strangers. But Jisung is still here, even after all that time, and Minho doubts there has ever been a dull moment between them. 

Changbin accuses him of playing favorites with his friends. How Minho would never let him get away with the things that Jisung does, how he would move mountains for Jisung if it was necessary, how he treats Jisung much like how Changbin treats Seungmin, his husband of two years.

(He chooses to ignore the implications of what Changbin said, especially the last one.

Because who was he to say anything? Isn’t it normal for best friends to make each other happy?)

But Jisung is special to him, in whatever manner that may be. 

But he does wonder if Jisung is only a friend, or if there's something else there he’s not privy to. 

They don’t actually get to experience the beach firsthand until the sunset, but Minho is perfectly content with that. Jisung grabs one towel and forces them to change into shorts before heading out. Jisung’s overzealousness about the beach gives him warmth; it makes the trip worth every minute of overtime he had put in to be able to save up for it. 

They don’t believe in wearing shoes, knowing that if they did, the grains of sand would forever haunt them, even back in Seoul, so they trek out onto the beach in their bare feet. Jisung lays the towel down on the ground, smoothing out the edges until they lie completely flat. Minho tries to squash himself onto the towel next to Jisung, but both of them have half their body directly on the sand. His pants are surely ruined, but he brushes off the fleeting complaint.

Pink and indigo streaks cut through the sky, blending into a fervent orange. It begins to fade, leaving a dark blue twilight, until they are fully blanketed in darkness, with only the pinpricks of light winking from the lamp posts and hotels keeping them from sitting in a complete blackout. The world is quiet underneath their toes, and Minho sprawls out on his stomach, arms spanning out, and hugs the ground as he feels the world go round. 

Jisung is leaning with his arms behind him, supporting his entire weight. Leaning forward, he then brings his knee up to his chin, hugging it with both arms. The sea breeze ripples through their hair, wildly ruffled in a scruffy tangle, but Minho doesn’t even reach to comb through it like he normally would. 

“How’s your ankle?” Minho asks. Jisung had been able to hobble through the airport at a snail’s pace this morning, often leaning on Minho for support, but they haven’t moved around much since. 

“It’s fine,” Jisung says, carefully flexing his ankle, rotating his foot to the left, then to the right, before wincing minutely. “A little sore, but I’m not in excruciating pain or anything.” Knowing Jisung and his low physical pain tolerance, the impending doom clamping down in Minho’s chest releases. 

Jisung laughs then, warm and full of life, and shakes his head. He pulls himself into a crisscrossed position, dropping his hands into his lap, and fixes Minho with a gaze that makes chills creep down his spine. When Jisung looks at him like he’s the only person in the world, it never stays for long.

Jisung averts his gaze before Minho could even process the motion. 

“Maybe I’ll write a song about this,” Jisung muses, rolling the hem of his shirt with his right hand. His left hand rests on the sand, drawing nonsensical patterns in the grains “I like it here.”

“Give me a cameo in your song,” Minho suggests, tilting his head. His statement elicits an airy giggle from Jisung.

“Maybe I’ll write our wedding vows about this place.”

“Yeah?” Minho starts, feeling flushed and faint, simply because Jisung is Jisung. He looks up, expecting to meet Jisung’s gaze, but the younger is turned away from him, looking far beyond into the ocean. “When we’re—”

“When we’re forty and still single, I know,” Jisung finishes for him. It’s an ongoing joke they’ve had since they were in college. That if they were still single by the time they were forty, they would marry each other, rent a spacious apartment in the nicer parts of the city, and adopt three cats. “I’ll write about how I almost broke my ankle as a metaphor for something. Maybe something like, _I was in New York and I fell for you._ Sounds romantic, right?” Jisung clutches his heart and falls back dramatically before rolling back upright. 

“I’m only marrying you so we can file our taxes together,” he retorts.

“Of course,” Jisung replies. “Gotta save money for retirement.”

Minho scoffs. “When I’m with you, I feel so old.”

“We _are_ old. I’ve had my quarter life crisis already,” Jisung smirks, leaning in closer to him. Minho looks at the boy who's peering down at him. “And you’re almost thirty, hyung. But it’s not about the number. It’s about how you feel. And _I_ still feel like I’m eighteen.”

He is unable to hold back his snort. “You act like it, too.”

“Are you calling me immature?” 

“Hey, those were your words, not mine.”

Jisung narrows his eyes in disdain.

“I remember you had blue hair when you were eighteen,” Minho recalls, brushing the sand off his elbows and sitting upright again. Jisung had dyed it an electric blue on a whim. That was the first time he had altered his hair color, and Minho still remembers the box dye splattered all around his newly-cleaned bathroom counter. Jisung’s hands had been stained blue for two weeks afterwards because of an unfortunate oversight regarding gloves (of which there were none), and planning. “I kind of miss the crazy colors.” He thumbs a strand of Jisung’s dark hair between his fingers. 

“I do too, sometimes,” Jisung agrees, now peering up at Minho. “But then, I remember how much of a pain in the ass it all was, and I don’t miss it anymore. Like maintaining the roots. Having to buy expensive color-safe stuff. Switching out all my white pillowcases for black ones.”

“Oh, please, as if you didn’t still try to get away with using three-in-one hair products.”

“Shut up,” Jisung retorts, but his cheeks are dimpled and his eyes are crinkled.

“Which color was your favorite, then?” Minho prods. 

Jisung hums in thought, pursing his lips together. “I liked the silver. And the blonde. The blonde was nice.”

Minho nods in agreeance. The blonde had been quite nice. It enveloped Jisung’s face like a halo, his aura nothing but angelic. 

“But hyung, remember when _you_ dyed your hair?”

He does remember. Jisung had pressured him for weeks, and when summer break came around in his third year of college, he had given in, letting Jisung to drench his hair in bleach and dye. The end result was a burnt orange color that complemented his skin tone quite nicely, but after it grew out, he never dyed it again.

“You made me look like a traffic cone,” he squints at Jisung ruefully. “I couldn’t leave my house for weeks.” 

Jisung pouts. “But I made you look so pretty, hyung.” And then Jisung says something under his breath, in such a low voice that Minho almost misses it. Almost. But he doesn’t. “You’re always pretty, though.”

Minho’s breath hitches and he’s glancing back at Jisung, wondering if he misheard. No, he couldn’t have, though he’d be lying if he said he _wouldn’t_ want to hear it from the younger again. His eyes flicker to the Jisung’s lips, glossy and full under the night sky, and he’s leaning in from the force of sheer magnetism and—

Jisung pulls away first, standing up and brushing away the granules of sand that had stuck to the surface of his clothes. Minho blinks, pulling himself off of the towel and watches as Jisung folds it into a neat square. 

“I’m tired, Minho,” is all he says. “Let’s go back.”

It’s times like these where Minho has to ask the age-old question once again—if he’s really _just friends_ with Jisung. If they really are just friends, then why do they have this constant push and pull, like the lonely moon at night tugging on the waves lapping so many light years away. Why does Jisung have to keep his head resting on Minho’s shoulder whenever possible? Why does Jisung have to give him the widest smile that rivals the sun? Why does Minho have a constant pang in his heart, so great that he’s adjusted to it being normal for _years_?

He’s content with being friends. Truly, he is. Nobody in the universe could match with him as well as Jisung does. He’s hit the jackpot with this friendship, and he knows it. Knows full and well that he’ll never be unhappy as long as Jisung is in his life.

But as he lags behind Jisung, as he always is, as he always has been, his feet trudging through the lumpy sand on the way back to their rooms, he finds himself asking something new.

Whether or not these things really meant anything at all.

…

Sleep evades him.

He spends most of the night tossing and turning under the covers, the duvet hot and itchy on his skin. The ceiling fan is turned up to the highest possible setting, but instead of cooling him down like he wanted it to, it blows back hot air, mocking him in his suffering. 

It's infuriating. He makes an effort to come up with any imaginary scenario to fall asleep to, then has a shot at counting sheep. He loses count by the seventh sheep. 

Every. Single. Time. 

He makes a forthright attempt to fall asleep before flipping over to grab his phone as a last ditch resort. It ricochets off the mattress and lands on the hardwood floor. The smack of the phone against the ground doesn't sound promising for the state of the screen, which elicits a groan from Minho. He doesn't stand up to retrieve the device, opting to keep his body taut on the bed while stretching his arms and torso a strenuous amount to pick up the phone. 

The screen brightens when he clicks the power button, blue light assaulting his eyes. There aren’t any new notifications; nobody in their right mind would stay up until three in the morning on a Thursday. He slams the phone down onto his chest and stares up at the fuzzy ceiling. 

He does the only thing he can think of. 

Stepping onto the wooden floor, frigid when it hits the balls of his feet, the floorboards creak wretchedly upon each step he takes. The door to his room doesn’t fare much better, and he winces at the squeaking sound the knob makes as he turns it. Then, he pads next door to the bedroom where Jisung is sleeping. Or not sleeping, because it’s Jisung. 

He’s silent when he opens the door and enters. It has the same layout as Minho’s room—cream colored walls, queen sized bed, floor to ceiling windows—looking all very put together. But the thing he focuses on is the warm light coming from the bedside lamp, illuminating Jisung as he furiously scrawls words into a moleskin journal. He’s draped in ivory colored sheets. Heavenly.

Minho is a mere moth drawn to a celestial light.

Jisung doesn’t acknowledge him yet, with his brows furrowed and lips pursed, absorbed in his work. It isn’t until Minho trips over a suitcase that the younger lifts his head, like a deer caught in the headlights. Then, he relaxes—first his face, and then his body—and scoots over, a nonverbal cue for Minho to join. Jisung closes the journal and sends it flying to the ground, cradling Minho’s head with his arms. 

Because that’s just something they do. 

…

He awakens at 5 a.m., having dozed off for a measly two hours before his circadian rhythm decided that was enough. 

Jisung is in the same position he had been in when Minho first came inside. Still brushing his fingers through Minho’s hair as well, which gives his scalp a slightly tickly sensation, making his stomach fizz and flutter and flip. He’s unaware if Jisung’s gotten any rest at all, but Jisung looks bright eyed and bushy tailed, not a dark circle in sight and a lack of sunken cheeks. He’s lively, like he has energy stored somewhere in a reservoir. A cache that seems to be limitless with how much radiance Jisung exudes at the crack of dawn. 

“Good morning,” Jisung begins. “Want to go watch the sunrise?” 

Minho shuts his eyes and groans, not ready to acknowledge the rising sun that signifies a new day. Jisung taps his fingers successively on Minho’s stomach. They flit over his skin, and Minho lips tug upwards but he tries to force them back down to a neutral resting place, but then he must end up with a grotesque frown because Jisung breaks out into giggles. 

He peppers kisses into Minho’s hair before crawling out of bed. Minho whines at the sudden loss of warmth, tugging Jisung’s arm so that he crashes back on his chest with a thud. They stay there in comforting silence. It’s pleasant, just soaking in each other’s presence. Jisung smells like a blend of salt air and citrus—specifically oranges and lemons. He smells like sunshine. 

(He revokes his previous statement about Jisung being the personification of New York. Rather, he’s Los Angeles, reminiscent of sun rays so saccharine it aches.)

“Did you sleep last night?” He murmurs. 

“Did _you_?” Jisung laughs. “I wasn’t the one who snuck into your room at ass o’clock.”

Minho presses his lips together in a thin line. “That’s not fair. I asked you first.”

“When did you care about anything being fair?” Then there’s only the sound of their breathing in the room. After a prolonged silence, Jisung speaks again. “I slept a little. But I feel great. Your turn.”

Minho holds up two fingers to symbolize the miserable two hours he had gotten last night. He frowns when Jisung begins to clap, his chest shaking up and down with laughter. “Guess I’m being a bad influence.” 

“If you were gonna be a bad influence, I would be so much worse off right now.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” They look at each other. Then, smugly: “I’m definitely not the bad influence here. It’s you.”

“Little shit,” Minho hits Jisung on the arm, taking a mock offence. “What did I do?”

“You used to get me to steal snacks for you from the vending machine in our dorm,” Jisung says. “I almost got my ass busted cause of that bitchy RA.”

“You mean, _we_ stole snacks from the vending machine.” He rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like I held a gun to your head just so I could get some candy. You did it because you were broke and wanted to cheat the system.”

“Semantics,” Jisung shrugs. “Now get up. We have to watch the sunrise.”

Minho watches Jisung swivel to get ready first. The view before him was more magnificent than the sunrise on the ocean.

…

Minho much prefers sunsets over sunrises. It fits neatly in his schedule; he doesn’t have to go out of his way to watch a sunset. Any rational individual would think the same.

Or so he thinks. 

Jisung is the complete opposite, and Minho has the pleasure waking up to photos of the dawn, which he would never view otherwise, on most mornings back home.

The two of them move in unison, lugging the cruiser bikes out of the garage and hauling themselves out the door around 6:20. They position themselves in a strategic place for optimal sunrise viewing, smack dab in the midst of the expansive shore, backs to the waves lapping at the sand, their bikes propped up on their kickstands nearby. 

The sun slides out from under the wispy blankets of dark blue. Like watercolor droplets falling onto a blank canvas, peach flecks appear on the navy sky. Following after come the rosy speckles, the yellow and orange bands of marigolds bloom. Tendrils of cotton white clouds frame the swelling sun, matching the blazing glory of the gates of heaven. Jisung might just have converted him into a sunrise person. But how could he not be? When the sky is alit with fire, the world emanating a new light that pulses throughout Minho’s heart. 

The sun rises everyday. With never-failing dependency, it sheds the covers of night and presents itself, even behind clouds thickly blocking it out. Will always rise, whether he is witness to it or not. Yet it feels different somehow, and the swell in his chest from the birth of the dawn melts into yearning. It longs for something else that he hopes will greet him every morning as steadily as the sun rises.

Once the sun has affixed itself in the sky, Jisung spares him a sidelong glance and kicks the stand up from his bike. Minho emulates the movement, taking his own bike from the sand and wheeling it out onto the bike trail. Using the sole of his shoe, he wipes off some of the sand from the grooves of the tires, but only a few grains fall off sadly, and the tire is still peppered with sandy grit. Giving up, he sets one foot on the pedal and pushes over, effectively straddling the seat. 

Jisung’s lopsided smirk challenges Minho, before words that would be cut off and obstructed by the wind can. “Race you,” the breeze swallows up, and Jisung is already mounted on top of his bike seat and pedaling off furiously before Minho can accept the challenge.

Minho’s never done anything in his life without turning it into a full-blown competition. He begins to pedal, fast, the gust of wind whipping his hair off his forehead. The current is blowing against him, but he continues to pump his feet with reckless abandon. There is no final destination in mind—Jisung hadn't specified anything—and a couple minutes into cycling, he’s still some distance away from Jisung. Minho extends his legs until he’s nearly standing up on the pedals, using the last of stamina to push through, rejoicing when he turns around and detects Jisung’s shocked face over his shoulder. After maintaining a reasonable lead, he halts abruptly and leans his bike against the trunk of a palm tree. Thighs burning and lungs empty, he sinks down with his chest heaving.

Jisung is still on the bike path, the oversized white t-shirt that he’s wearing drooping down on one shoulder and it looks like it’s been suspiciously plucked from Minho’s suitcase. His hair is also a frenzied mess, several strands stubbornly sticking up. 

Jisung has the look of contentment settled into his face as he slows down towards Minho. It verges on jubilance. He’s so cute. 

And then it hits him. 

It’s sunlight triumphantly shining on the ground, on a patch of soil housing the delicate seeds of love, it’s sunlight joyously beaming down on a brilliant diamond forged from day after day of refining, swaddled in layers of gauzy friendship, it’s sunlight striking right into the eyes of Minho that blinds him, because it finally hits him, without a single shred of hesitation.

He’s halfway around the world with his best friend and everything feels so magically steadfast. In a sense, he has come to the realization that he’s sort of... in _love_ with Jisung. And maybe that realization was a long time coming. He doesn’t know. Notwithstanding, that’s all there is to it. 

He is in love with Jisung.

He tests those words out in his head again. _He is... in love with Jisung. He is in love with Jisung._ It flows naturally, a rushing river with an unmovable strength, like it was always filed away in the depths of his soul waiting for future use. He tries it again, saying it like a mantra. _He is in love with Jisung._ And it feels so utterly right.

The younger doesn’t bother to keep his bike upright, letting it drop onto the sand. It crashes and sends particles of sand flying, some straight Minho’s eyes, the bike vibrating from impact a little before stilling. Jisung descends next to him, the rate of his breaths quick and short. He offers Minho his water, which tastes slightly briny and grainy, but it quenches the thirst in his throat. 

“Best two out of three, hyung,” Jisung proposes. “Your bike tires are way better than mine. There’s no possible way you could’ve beaten me in a fair race because you haven’t been that active in years.” 

“Life’s not fair, Jisungie,” he replies cheekily. “Deal with it.”

Yet he still finds himself racing, his heart hammering in his ribcage from both his sudden realization of his emotions and from physical exertion, and indeed, life clearly was not fair, because Jisung _does_ win the subsequent two races. Minho gives it his best effort, but he doesn’t outpace Jisung’s swiftness.

(“I still won the first round,” Minho ribs once they get back to the beach house.

“Your win didn’t count,” Jisung argues. “You got lucky. There’s a _difference_.”)

It doesn’t matter to him in the end. He’s in love with Jisung.

It feels so good to say, to think, to acknowledge.

That’s as good of a prize as he’s going to get.

…

Back in Seoul, Jisung and Minho had agreed on one thing: that once they were in Los Angeles, they would head to a club, relive their college glory days of getting blacked out, dance a little (or a lot, dependent on the volume of alcohol consumed), and then hop in a rideshare to return to the place they were staying. On the second to last night of their trip, Jisung narrows down the handful of options to a place that’s somewhere that’s close to the beach house.

That’s how Minho finds himself in the middle of this club, surrounded in a writhing turmoil of sweaty bodies and thundering music. Neon lights flash in a dizzying pattern across the walls and floor of the club, illuminating the surfaces violet. But the hazy light is not bright enough for him to see anything. Plus, there are way too many people for his personal comfort; he bumps into someone new at every slightest movement. Planting his feet to the floor, he thinks he’s escaped the curse of knocking body parts with a stranger, until a drunk group of college students crash into him, probably gifting him several bruises on his arms as they grab onto him to halt their fall, slurred apologies tumbling out of their lips. The continuous bass thuds in his head, followed by a generic and repetitive synth drop. He would like to see whoever the DJ is fired. 

His mood brightens as Jisung pulls him towards the bar area, sure to be filled with spirits (liquor _and_ kindred). Jisung is also the one who orders the first round of shots, against Minho’s protests. They toast, clinking their shot glasses together. Minho tilts his head back and lets the liquid trickle down his throat, burning in a way that’s satisfying and not too gruesome. He feels himself perking up. On the other hand, Jisung sets down the shot glass and pulls a face. Even years of hardcore partying did not change the way the younger felt regarding alcohol. 

The anxious sensation crowding his brain earlier was sliding away as the alcohol slunk into him. He begins to feel himself flush, and it’s a good thing it’s dim in the club, or the red powdering his cheeks would be embarrassingly noticeable. As unpleasant as overheating in the already stuffy club is, Minho surprisingly enjoys it. The sensation instills a surge of nostalgia in him, back to when he was just nineteen years old and didn’t have to care about anything except submitting assignments before midnight. It had always been a real mood killer to be in the midst of a party and then get an assignment reminder ten minutes before the deadline. Before he gets too caught up in the memories of his college days, Jisung is calling over the bartender again for a second round, and Minho throws back the shot along with his head. More acidic and astringent this time around, he grimaces as it hits his throat. 

Then it’s a third round, and a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth. And a seventh. Or is it the eighth? Or were they still on the sixth, and the shot glasses piling up on the counter had just created an illusion? He’s lost count. The world glides by slower, at a relaxed tempo, and he enjoys the change of pace. Now, he’s ended up stepping onto the dance floor with Jisung, the music deafening in his eardrums. The lights have also changed color—now to hot pink, electric green, and neon blue—and he bounces up and down to the tempo of the music thumping from the speakers overhead. 

“Minhoooo,” Jisung draws out his name, carding his fingers through his hair. “Let’s dance.”

“We _are_ dancing, though?” His reply lifts into a question. 

“No, I mean like this...” Jisung proceeds to wrap his arms around Minho’s neck. He slowly sways in a sensual dance, words sultry and prickly on Minho’s skin. His eyes are glassy, filmy as he presses his forehead to Minho’s. “I want to dance like this.”

Minho stops jouncing on the balls of his feet and begins to rock side to side, following Jisung’s lead. Jisung treads on his toes every couple of steps, bursting into a flurry of giggles each time he does. It’s silly. They’re slow dancing, but it’s a piss poor rendition of doing so. It’s more along the lines of what he would call moderate dancing: a slow dance to an upbeat song. In the midst of the clubbers shaking to the beat of the music booming across the room, they probably stick out like sore thumbs, interlocked clumsily. 

Jisung latches onto Minho’s neck first, but then his hands find their way to the small of his back, trailing down all the way to his ass. Jisung’s forehead is still against Minho’s, but he’s impossibly close now. Then, Jisung’s lips make startling contact with his jaw, the first time it’s ever occurred. Usually, they reserve their platonic kisses for friend-approved places like the forehead or hair. It’s a brush lighter than a feather, but the area stings, lingering for a second too long. 

Granted, that might just be the alcohol speaking. 

Minho rakes his hand in Jisung’s hair, messing up all the gel Jisung had used to style his hair into a dramatic coiffure, but Minho thinks he looks even better like this. 

A little disheveled. 

Bathed in lowlights. 

Just so _close_ to him. Minho doesn’t know what to do except go along with it because he feels like he’s drifting along, weightless atop thin air. 

Minho’s gaze travels down from Jisung’s eyes to his lips. Most of the lip gloss that he had applied earlier has rubbed off, but there’s a faint sparkle remaining. When it catches the light, it is glittering. It beckons him; it’s tempting, too, how he could just lean forward a centimeter and kiss the rest of the lip gloss right off. He can barely register the clutter of thoughts forming in his head, but one side of his brain is chanting at him to just _go for it._

The time in this club is warped, the seconds squeeze into hours yet the minutes streak by like milliseconds. He couldn’t even guess how long they’ve been on the floor, rocking back and forth to the music. It could be years for all Minho cared. It could be mere minutes—time always flew at sound-barrier-breaking speeds when he was with Jisung. 

Jisung licks his lips so that they're glossy, slick with spit. He brings his hand to the back of Minho’s neck and applies a light pressure, heat blooming in that spot. Another hand is sliding over the curve of his waist. The only thing registering in his jumbled brain is how full of pleasure this is, Jisung’s embrace. They’re so close—so, so close—he imagines how sweet Jisung’s lips would taste on his. Aching rockets through his body, from his toes to his head and back. It’s as if they’re going to—

But they don't.

The disappointment that floods his body, from his head to his toes and back, is offset by the alcohol coursing through his veins, and as he fumbles around in the darkness, he is left with nothing. And feeling nothing feels even worse when there had just _been_ something within reach.

By some means, Minho has lost sight of Jisung. He’s now left to fend for himself in the humid club whose walls suddenly are closing in, his shirt sticking against his back, his sweat an adhesive that he can’t shake. He scans for Jisung in the crowd, but it’s far too dark to even make out the features of the nameless faces of the crowd, or even the familiar visage of the person who brought him into this godforsaken place. Furthermore, the strobing lights make it downright possible, dulling his senses, his head pounding with each flicker. 

He maneuvers his way through tight openings around the club, past the herds of people with sloshing drinks in their hands. There’s still no sign of Jisung, until he catches a glimpse of discernible black platform boots with silver eyelets. Latching onto the lifeline, he stumbles over until he can see the legs wearing the boots, the torso above the legs, the back of the head with the mop of mussed hair affixed to the torso.

The lights drown the room in red, a crimson fitting of lust and carnal desire, and Jisung is staggering on the dance floor drunkenly while another guy grinds up against him. The lights are fading from red to purple again, then to an off-white, and Minho fights the drowsiness beginning to drape around his shoulders. Relief washes over him, knowing that Jisung hasn't wholly abandoned him, until he catches a glimpse of the expression plastered on Jisung’s face. His eyes are blown wide, uncomfortably wide, as he inches away from the man. Then the man shuffles closer, teetering on his drunken legs, with no goddamn respect for Jisung’s personal space. 

And _again._

Minho creeps closer. He can make out a couple of the words that the man is muttering to Jisung, who looks agitated, crinkling his nose and stepping further away in a clear show of disinterest, but the man persists.

“I’m here with someone,” Jisung shouts at the man over the thudding bass. 

Minho stifles the urge to leap forward and perhaps put the man in a chokehold, but he holds back. 

“Who?” The man is encroaching into Jisung’s space with one corner of his mouth lifted in a smarmy smirk. Minho wants nothing more than to wipe the slimy expressions off of his face. The lights flare back to red, lecherous with desire. The man puts his hand on Jisung’s shoulder to pull him in towards his chest, but Jisung pries the knobbly fingers off. Before the man can further advance and do something he would regret, Minho pushes past a group of college kids and lunges for Jisung’s wrist, yanking him back. Jisung flinches at first, eyes still terrified, but then the recognition sparks in them once they land on Minho and he allows himself to be pulled away from the scene.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” The man yells at him once Jisung is in his grip. Then, he hollers a string of what sounds like expletives in their direction, punctuated with a rolled tongue and spit, before he’s angrily stomping away. Minho continues to tug Jisung through the club, all the way until they’re over the threshold and out the door. The air from the outside hits his face, still warm but breezy. 

“Thank you, Min,” Jisung utters, voice pitched low. He clenches the hem of Minho’s shirt and exhales deeply. “He wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“Dude was a total asshole,” he snickers, to lighten up the mood around them. “Let’s just go back.” Jisung nods slightly and Minho takes a hold of his hand, their fingers intertwined. They begin to walk down the street, and even though it’s early morning by now, there are clubbers wandering past them. It’s not a leisurely stroll; Jisung is unbalanced, relying on Minho to keep upright, still tipsy from the alcohol, and Minho isn’t faring much better. Briefly, he wonders if Jisung’s ankle has been exacerbated by their pitiful trudge back to the house.

They make it back eventually. Minho holds back the frustration still bubbling in him as the key refuses to fit inside the keyhole, always slipping and scraping the wood around it. He momentarily imagines punching down the door, except he knows the student loaning it to them would be very unhappy indeed, so he fumbles with the key and finally succeeds after an unreasonable amount of tries, and they tumble inside. 

“Are you o—” Minho says, turning behind him, but he gets thrown up against the doorframe. Before he has any time to react, Jisung’s lips are on his. His lips are slightly chapped and taste like the alcohol that they’ve been downing all night. Minho angles his head so that he presses in further so that their lips are sliding against each other. Jisung takes a fistful of his shirt before pulling back, eyes foggy and disoriented. 

His vision swims as he’s being led into Jisung’s room. Jisung grunts as he hits the doorframe, miscalculating his step, and Minho almost trips over him. He has to jiggle and twist the knob—pressing pause on everything—until the door flies open. Jisung’s fingers skim across his jaw and cheekbone, and he presses back down onto his lips hungrily. Minho’s going crazy, he’s sure. _Seriously_ going crazy as Jisung’s tongue is in his mouth. He savors the taste, drinking him down and gnawing lightly on Jisung’s lower lip. 

Jisung shudders and tilts his head so that the kiss is even deeper, the feeling tingling and burning into his skin. Then Minho presses his thumb into Jisung’s clavicle, and Jisung moans slightly, his fingers trailing blazes under the fabric of Minho’s shirt. His head spins, and he wants more. Craves more, because this is the first taste he’s ever gotten and he doesn’t want it to stop. 

Minho pulls away and blinks, taking in the sight of Jisung, who’s all plump and swollen lips, flushed cheeks and neck. He leans into Jisung again, Minho's hands on his back. Jisung groans into the kiss, melting in his arms, and guides them to the bed. They topple over on the mattress and Jisung tugs at Minho’s shirt with heightened urgency, shrugging him out of his clothes as quickly as he can. 

Jisung trails a hand down his bare chest and climbs on top of him. “Hyung,” he whispers, his voice hoarse while he pulls back slightly, sending shivers down Minho’s spine, “you’re pretty.” Then Jisung swoops down and captures Minho’s lips in another kiss, fumbling with the waistband of his pants, another hand squeezing his thigh. Jisung is everywhere, desperate, his mouth on Minho’s neck, leaving sloppy wet kisses. Minho’s heartbeat is thundering now, loud and erratic, but he’s not thinking anything through.

He eventually finds his voice, and it comes out smaller than he intends it to. “Sungie,” he says, goosebumps erupting across his skin. “Sungie, we—” 

Jisung nips the underside of his jaw, causing him to let out an embarrassingly loud moan. He buries his fingers in Jisung’s hair, gripping lightly as Jisung peppers kisses down his torso. 

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Jisung says again between kisses. “Fuck, we should’ve done this sooner,” he mutters, but it sounds like something Jisung is saying to himself instead of to Minho. He removes his fingers from Minho’s chest and begins to latch onto the zipper of his pants, but Minho blocks his hands wildly before he can go any further.

“Stop. Jisung, stop.” He’s breathless and can’t quite get the words out. Jisung peers up at him, his eyes shiny and confused. “We can’t, Sungie. You’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk,” Jisung whines, the pronunciation of each word rounded at the edges and proving otherwise. “I’m fine. I won’t regret this.” 

“Only a drunk person would say that,” he shoots back without malice, sitting upright on the mattress. “We can’t.” There’s evident hurt in Jisung’s eyes. But he can’t and he won't. He won’t take advantage of Jisung like that when he’s drunk. Damn it, he’s drunk, too, but this whole situation is sobering him to the state where he is dismayingly more clear-headed than he wants to be. 

He can’t meet Jisung’s gaze, so he looks fixedly at the ground, picking up his shirt off the floor before heading towards the door.

“Hyung,” Jisung calls after him, stopping him in his tracks. “Please don’t leave.”

Minho lets out a long sigh, flattening his hair down with his palm. Turning around on his heels, he stares at Jisung, who’s kneeling on the mattress with his eyes pleading. “Jisung…” He takes one more step towards the door. “I’m being serious. We can’t.”

“Please,” Jisung chokes out, “please just stay here. I’m not going to do anything. I _wouldn’t.”_ If Minho looks closely enough, he can make out a subtle redness that rims Jisung’s eyes. “Please, hyung,” he scurries to the other side of the bed to make space. “Just please, stay.” 

“Okay.” He walks back towards the bed and sits on the edge of the mattress. Can only slump his head forward, clasping his hands together and exhaling. On the other side of the bed lies Jisung, his back turned the other way, hands curled into tight fists. “I’ll stay.”

The silence between them after that is suffocating. 

…

Minho wakes up with a two ton weight pressing down on his body and his eyelids heavy. He blinks several times through drowsy eyes threatening to close with every blink, the white bedroom excruciating to his vision. Jisung is nuzzled into his neck, with an arm slung over his chest and drool running down the side of his face. Vulnerable and delicate, even if Jisung was obstructing his ability to breathe efficiently.

Luckily, he doesn’t have a hangover. He’s built up his alcohol tolerance, but there’s a downside to that. 

Because he remembers everything, starting from the club all the way to when they got back. To how Jisung threaded his fingers through his hair, how his lips burned on Minho’s. There’s no way to take that back now, and he doesn’t want to undo it, either, but a new hole tears through his heart. 

Even though Minho has an all too vivid memory of what transpired last night, Jisung is, thankfully, a lightweight. He could scamper through a park naked and would barely retain any of the experience, given enough alcohol. It’s a blessing and a curse, because maybe last night meant something to Jisung. But if he brought it up, and it didn’t, it would be fourteen years of friendship embarrassingly down the drain.

It seems so frustratingly trivial that a kiss could ruin their friendship, just like that. It’s only physical contact, and he’s been down that alley with Jisung for years now. But it was different. He knows it’s different, the type of different where he acts on impulse instead of thinking things through. In the dim light, where there’s no wisdom of hindsight, everything feels simpler. Everything exists in the present, with no past to dwell on and no future to cower in fear thinking about. With no regrets either. At the same time, Minho doesn’t know if he regrets anything at all. To call Jisung a regret would be insulting on Jisung’s behalf. And on his feelings. He doesn’t regret falling in love, not one bit.

Jisung stirs, giving him a tightlipped smile once his eyes are open. He stretches his arms over his head, almost knocking into Minho’s teeth while doing so. 

“What time is it?” Jisung yawns, lifting a hand into his hair, matted and tousled. 

“It’s eleven, sleepyhead,” he grins at Jisung. “You’re sleeping the day away even though it’s our last day here.” 

“Don’t remind me,” Jisung grumbles. He reaches across Minho for his phone, checking himself out in the camera, first holding it close to his forehead, then checking both eyes, his cheeks, then his jaw, and lastly the whole front view before placing it back on the nightstand. “My head hurts.”

“Go drink some water, then.”

“But there _is_ no water,” he sulks. Sure enough, the tables are all empty, save for some of Jisung’s toiletries. 

“Then go _get_ some water,” Minho replies matter-of-factly. 

“But, hyung…”

Minho already knows what Jisung is about to say, so he doesn’t waste time rolling out of bed. He walks to the kitchen and fills a cup with lukewarm tap water before shuffling back into the room, flicking Jisung’s forehead and handing him the glass. Jisung gulps it down in a matter of seconds with voracity, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand once the cup is empty. 

“Thank you,” Jisung smiles. He’s too fond of the boy in front of him to deny him anything, as the story usually goes. “I can’t believe myself. No matter how hard I try I literally could not tell you a single thing that happened last night…” He presses his head in his hands, scratching at his scalp in stress.

Minho hums, hiding his inaudible sigh of relief. So Jisung hadn’t remembered. He had predicted that perfectly, having experienced enough of drunk Jisung to have extensive knowledge on his tolerance. But still, that doesn’t make it any less disappointing. “Sucks for you.”

“You’re not going to give me a play-by-play?”

“Not at all.” It’s a bad idea, and he refuses to gamble on that risk.

“You fucking bastard,” Jisung says, swatting him on the calf, and they both begin giggling obnoxiously. And everything is back to the unshakeable way it’s always been. 

Nothing can change that.

…

A week and a half is nothing, in the grand scheme of things. Since they leave for Seoul tomorrow morning, this is the last time he’ll be able to enjoy the city. 

This will be the last sunset Minho can see in Los Angeles. 

The sky, the sand, the water—he soaks it all in. Doesn't know when he’ll ever be able to do this again. Even with the tens and thousands of people that they’ve passed by over the days, even while being present amongst a megalopolis of people everywhere, this has been his quiet escape, the little corner of the world that he and Jisung have made all their own. 

They decided to forego the towel today, sitting on the sand with their knees drawn up to their chests, the sand still holding warmth from the sizzling sun. The sky is emitting scalding shades of yellow and orange, and Jisung is bathed in the light, his skin pure gold. It’s something only seen in movies. Beautiful. 

This is one of those fleeting moments where everything feels tranquil enough that he can just breathe. He isn’t even caught getting stressed out trying to enjoy the moment because of cursed self-awareness of being in a situation he knows he’ll never get to experience again. Right here, right now, he can forget about all of his worries because he has limited time here, and it would be a great shame to waste it brooding. It’s like a dream that will evaporate the second he tries to keep it clasped to his chest. 

He doesn’t want to leave. 

As much as he wishes it were otherwise, all things must come to an end.

“Hey, hyung,” Jisung says, grabbing a handful of sand and watching as it falls through the sieve of his fingers. “Look. It looks like one of those hourglass timers the dentists used to give out.” He picks up another fistful, the grains filtering through immediately. 

“How many hourglasses do you think this beach could fill?” Minho muses, drawing patterns into the seashore with his index finger.

“Is this like that game where you guess how many jelly beans fit in the jar?” Jisung chuckles, dusting off his hands. “You say your guess first.”

“So you can gauge your estimate from mine?” He sneers, arching a sly eyebrow. “No thanks.”

“I already have my estimate,” Jisung says, eyes twinkling with mischief. “I don’t need yours to be able to guess.”

“Oh yeah? What is it then?” 

“Infinitely many,” Jisung says. “As long as there are hourglasses, this beach will be able to fill them. All sand is just eroded rock, and there’s plenty of rocks. Plus, there’s more sand under the water,” he finishes and looks back at Minho for a response.

“What about the sand that’s used to make the glass part of the hourglass?” 

Jisung shrugs. “Still the same. There’s infinite sand in the world.”

“Your answer is way too philosophical. I was just going to say at least three million.”

Jisung rolls his eyes. “It’s not philosophical, it’s just a fact. Ever heard of the rock cycle?”

 _“Ever heard of the rock cycle?”_ He mimics before he can stop himself, voice pitchy and high. “I think I prefer the water cycle.”

Jisung hums and stretches his legs out so that his feet are dipped in the ocean, foamy sea water washing onto his legs. The sun goes out with a dramatic burst of indigo and scarlet before disappearing over the water on the horizon. The deep blue sky, its final stage, signifies the end of their trip. Before they know it, they’ll be in Seoul again.

“Hey,” Jisung speaks up, turning to peer at Minho intently. He flashes him a small smile, private and full of fondness that it renders Minho breathless. There’s something reflected in his eyes, a careful, nervous flicker, but Minho can’t understand why. They stay suspended like that for a while, until Jisung lifts his hand and cups Minho’s jaw, exactly like he had last night. His cheeks are rosy and his breaths are unsteady flurries. But unlike the rest of their almost-kisses, Jisung closes the gap. It’s chaste, nothing more than a delicate brush of the lips, a tentative taste before Jisung pulls back, offering another smile and then biting his lip. Minho is done for.

There’s nothing to hide behind this time either. No alcohol, no adrenaline rush from the dance floor, not even lust. 

There’s nothing. 

But he doesn’t hesitate to surge forward, reconnecting their lips and letting the kiss linger a little longer. Trying to inhale Jisung slowly, unhurriedly, he wonders if Jisung can feel it too, the jumble of nerves and familiarity rushing in him all at once. Then Jisung pulls away once more.

“Hyung,” he whispers into his hair. The combination of Jisung’s voice and the sea breeze causes him to shiver. “Let’s not worry about anything right now. Let’s just enjoy the rest of our trip.”

His voice is honeyed, but his words are as transparent as they could be, knocking Minho out of his trance. _Let's not worry about anything,_ the subliminal message says, _and enjoy the rest of our trip because something like the chance to kiss Jisung would only be in a moment and place like this._ Somewhere far from where they’re permanently rooted. Somewhere short-lived, vanishing once day broke. 

Minho hears what Jisung has to say loud and clear. He’ll relish in this moment tonight, follow Jisung’s guidance and not worry about what kissing his best friend means. He’ll enjoy the rest of the trip, but when he gets back to Seoul, he’ll push this memory away. Because if that’s what Jisung wants, then that’s what Minho will do. He’s always had only Jisung’s best interests at heart, and those will always quash the traitorous feelings residing alongside them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so here's the second chapter... not me saying this would be up in a weeks time but i am impatient so yeah here it is !
> 
> enjoy!

During the thirteen hour flight back to Seoul, they didn’t exchange many words—usual for them since there were too many people within eavesdropping radius—but Jisung had spent most of the time putting final touches on the incredibly optimistic words in the moleskin journal that Minho had gifted him for his birthday. 

“We’re back, huh?” He told Minho, with a neutral tone, when they touched down. He remembers Minho giving him a quick nod and the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. Then, when they stepped into the airport gate, Minho had made a dash for the escalators without Jisung, mumbling something about how his boss was already on his ass about coming back to the office. Jisung knew it was a bullshit excuse, he knew that Minho knew it was a bullshit excuse too, but he didn’t have the heart to fight it before Minho was speeding out of the terminal. 

Jisung drove home that afternoon, dropped his bags by the front door and let Minho know through a text that he had gotten home safe. He wished him well with his boss and with work, receiving an impartial response five hours later: a read receipt and a thumbs up emoji. 

Even though they’ve been back for a month, all they’ve managed to do is message each other a couple of ‘hellos’ and some trivial life updates. Before, he and Minho could never go more than two days without talking to each other. 

To add injury to the insult, there were some declined invites and some others that were left unanswered, but even those have stopped by now. 

At first, Jisung brushes off the seeds of doubt, because he had just been contracted to be a writer for a startup magazine. He’s been occupied with writing for the past month.

He knows how Minho can also get caught up in his job, forgetting to rest or just opting not to do so for the sake of productivity. How both of them can get when they’re at their busiest, but it’s usually one of them reminding the other to breathe, keeping each other sane and grounded.

So he knows. But just because he has a reason to be occupied and a rationalization as to why Minho is acting the way he is, that doesn’t mean his thoughts don’t run amok at night when he’s trapped in his own head. 

Forcing himself to look at his surroundings, shame tightens in his throat. He’s in his room, with clothes, papers and chargers strung across his ground. It’s worse than usual.

He stretches over, retrieving his journal from the bedside, and flips to the pages where he started writing about his silly little idea of love that blossomed into three or some sheets, back and front. 

And the first sentence scrawled in black ink: _Love is…_

If William Shakespeare writes about love like it’s a tragedy, then Han Jisung writes about love like it’s an epiphany. Freeing, like it’s the most magical sensation in the world, like it’s all-consuming, even if he’d cringe at that saying if he ever heard it spoken from anyone else. But he can’t even push through with skimming the rest. Can’t bear it, more or less. Because written on these pages is everything he’s ever felt about his best friend. It’s a little cheesy, or _very_ cheesy, because Jisung is a romantic at heart, but there’s no use for it now. He had attempted to multipurpose it into something else, tried his hand in a little free verse poetry, but it had just sounded awkwardly distressing and bittersweet. So it sits there, written, unused, and plaguing him at every turn. 

He places the notebook back to its spot on the nightstand. Then he picks up his phone, holding it in his grip loosely, as if detaching himself from it physically will speed up the process of detaching himself mentally, and does his nightly scroll through of his past texts with Minho. There’s an obvious shift in their messages, from when Minho would spam him with cat pictures and he would send back daily lunch updates before their trip to now, when they haven’t even exchanged a single word in the past two weeks. 

He misses Minho. It sounds funny; he’s never really _missed_ Minho his entire life. There had never been the opportunity for him to miss him when he had always been wherever Jisung was. 

_Backfired, didn’t it,_ he thinks contritely. Because even if they’re supposed to be ‘best friends,’ or something of the sort, all he’s managed to do is turn Minho off from him for a month.

Jisung exits the app and shuts his phone off. Brings it back to life so he can hover over the phoneapp momentarily before tapping on Seungmin’s contact name to call him. Seungmin’s always been on the rational side of things, or more rational compared to his other friends, like Hyunjin or Felix. Even though he’s a week younger than Jisung, he gives off the vibe of being older and wiser. Seungmin’s probably asleep—he had the healthiest sleep schedule out of anyone Jisung knew, the type that health magazines would chase after to document—but he calls him kind of just for the sake of calling. Calls for the off chance that he might actually answer, but alas, Seungmin’s phone was always on silent, so it wasn't like Jisung would wake him up anyway.

“Hello?” Seungmin picks up surprisingly, the speakerphone amplifying his voice and filling the room. “Jisung?”

“Hey.” Jisung’s voice comes out scratchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “You’re not asleep,” he states straightforwardly.

Seungmin scoffs. “I’m knee-deep in course planning right now. My house is filled to the brim with paper that Changbin says it’s like a tree graveyard.”

Jisung nods, even though Seungmin can’t see him through the screen. “Life of a grad student, I guess.”

“I guess so,” Seungmin echoes back. There’s some rustling of papers in the distance. “Why are you calling me at two in the morning? No offense, but you never call unless there's something wrong.”

A pointed remark, but Seungmin might actually be right about that. The last time Jisung had called, it was another late night like this, but he was getting brutally ripped apart by his employer through a variety of invectives via texts and emails. The only reason he hadn’t lost his freelance contract had been because of Seungmin, who spent an hour walking Jisung through what he needed to do to mend the situation. Funnily enough, the present parallels with the past, except now Jisung would argue that these were higher stakes. 

“That’s not always true,” Jisung still whines defensively. “I call other times too. I just haven’t recently because…”

“Because?” 

A few breaths pass before Jisung speaks again. “Do I have to say it?”

Seungmin lets out a heavy sigh, like a leaky balloon deflating. “No, but it sure would be great if you didn’t beat around the bush all the time.” 

“Says you,” he retorts. He flips himself over onto his stomach, the side of his face pressed against the pillow. “It’s because of Minho-hyung” is all he says next, and he knows that Seungmin is on the same page as him because a sharp inhale of breath can be heard from the other side.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Seungmin asks hesitantly, like he’s afraid to step over any lines. 

“Changbin-hyung hasn’t mentioned anything to you?” He was certain that Minho would’ve said something to Changbin, and by proxy it would get around to Seungmin eventually. 

“Not really,” Seungmin sighs. “Hyung tells Changbin and not me for a reason. And Changbin doesn’t just air out his friend’s drama like that.” 

“Oh,” he breathes out. 

“Yeah, so…” Seungmin trails off. “If you don’t mind me asking, what happened between you two?”

“I don’t know,” Jisung mutters, lying through his teeth. “A lot of things.”

Quietly, he adds, “I miss him, Seungmin.”

He has trouble not pitying himself. Twenty-five years old. Throwing a pity party. No matter how he looks at it, it _is_ kind of pathetic.

There’s no response for a while. He lifts the phone from his side to check if he’s been hung up on, but the call time ticks onwards, second by second. 

“Hey.” Jisung bites the inside of his cheek.

“I know,” Seungmin speaks at the same time, his words coming out of the speaker with sympathy and a trace of warmth. “You don’t have to tell me right now if you don’t want to, but let’s catch up later, yeah?” 

“Yeah, let’s do that. Good night.”

“Good night, Jisung.” Then the call ends and Jisung’s left in his bedroom alone with a deafening silence. 

…

Sometimes he asks himself where it all went wrong. When the way he viewed Minho (and their friendship) began to differ. The answer is always this: he’s not sure. 

Because he’s been friends with him since the moment they met. Since Minho moved in the next apartment over and Jisung so happened to run into him when they were walking to school, they’ve been friends. Since Minho would wait outside his door and bring him sweet rice puffs, they’ve been best friends. But he doesn’t know what exact moment sparked the way he started to see Minho as more than just a friend. Perhaps it’s been forever, because it certainly feels that way. 

He’s not the first person to be so smitten with Minho. He’s never the only person to be enraptured either and he certainly won’t be the last, because Minho’s Minho. People like Minho came once in a lifetime: charismatic in all of the right ways, genuinely making it easy for Jisung to believe that, _yes, this is the person that the universe had deemed as his ideal person_. And it’s something so easy to accept, falling in love with Minho and all of his warmth. Briefly, he toys with the idea that he slots right into Minho’s life so easily because the two are compatible in a way no other pair could be, but that would be selfish and wishful thinking.

But he had gone and destroyed their friendship back in Los Angeles, acting impulsively on a whim. That had been a mistake. He had seen the undeniable fear in Minho’s eyes when he had pulled back from the kiss. The kiss that apparently had been erased from history with how Minho treated him now. In his humble opinion, it wasn’t worth it.

But it’s that time of the year when he decides to do away with self-loathing, so he drags himself out to himself to the bar outside of the apartment. The one that he and Minho used to frequent every Friday before—

Well, before.

It’s neither empty nor crowded. There’s a couple middle-aged men and another group of what looks to be a group of students sitting inside. He takes a seat down on a barstool and sets his head in his hands. He probably looks like a pathetic wallflower, in comparison to the roaring laughter coming from the other side. 

So much for not self–loathing. He’s wallowing in his own pity, so much that he almost doesn’t hear the bartender approach.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” Jeongin, as the name tag reads, sneers, interrupting his thoughts. “Did he break up with you?”

“Aren’t you a little young to be bartending?” He shoots back and narrows his eyes, peering up at him with the most menacing expression he can muster. He knows he’s blowing hot air, because Jeongin looks objectively older, with defined features and a chiseled jawline, but the interrogation is already beginning to grate on his nerves. Jeongin only snickers at him before pouring him a cocktail. He’s always been poked fun at for not drinking his alcohol straight, and he takes a sip but it’s not as sweet as he remembers. Or maybe he was disillusioned about what was sweet and what wasn’t. “I don’t think minors should be working in a place like this.”

It visibly pisses Jeongin off and he scoffs, putting on a scandalized look before turning behind to grab some cocktail glasses. He begins to scoop ice in them. “I’m twenty-five. On the other hand, _you_ look like you’re barely out of high school, so I’m not sure what warrants you to speak.”

“Ouch,” he hisses, taking another sip of his drink. “I’m almost twenty-six, thanks, but you didn’t have to go there.”

“You started it,” Jeongin shrugs. “Where’s your boyfriend, that guy you’re usually with?” He asks, like Jisung is any old friend he’s chatting with.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Jisung grits through his teeth. “You sure ask a lot of questions, don’t you?”

“You looked like you had something on your mind.”

“Do you usually butt into other people’s business like this?” He sputters out. He can’t help himself, his voice coming off bitter and strong. “He’s not here right now. He’s busy, or whatever.”

Jeongin puts his hands up in a surrendering position, shaking his head and pressing his lips into a line. “Sorry for asking then. Well, I hope all goes well for you.” He walks off to the side and only returns to Jisung, all alone at the bar for the remainder of the night, to pour him the occasional drink. 

…

Somehow, between the hours of 10 p.m. and midnight and armed with an additional three rounds of drinks, he finds himself being backed against the brick wall of the dirty bar bathroom. A stranger has his arm resting next to Jisung’s head. Not wasting any time, the man wraps his arms around Jisung’s waist and kisses him. The kiss is messy, tongues in each other’s mouth, but it feels fairly decent. He doesn’t even know how long they’ve been at this. 

He gives the man in front of him a once over once the guy pulls away to catch his breath. He’s handsome, Jisung has to admit, with wavy blonde hair, a sturdy build, and swollen lips. 

“Wanna go back to my place?” The man suggests breathily, hands cupping Jisung’s ass. Jisung gives him a nod and lets the man—who he doesn’t even know the name of—lead him out of the dim-lit bar and into a taxi, where his hands are running up and down Jisung’s thigh during the entire ride. 

The moment they get into the apartment, the man begins to suck on the space where Jisung’s jaw meets his neck. Waddling over to the bedroom, they almost stumble into a floor lamp but make it safely onto the bed. Two hands toy with the edge of Jisung’s shirt before lifting it over his head, and he registers cold fingers tugging on his belt loops with his own hand traveling under the waistband of the man’s boxers. 

“Fuck,” he hisses as he lets his fingers melt into the man’s soft skin, biting back any other words he has to say. Then, his eyes begin to swell and it feels like he’s been dunked until a bucket of ice water.

“Stop,” he says, softly at first, but there are still lips trailing down his neck. “Stop,” he says again, louder this time, pushing the man’s head away from him, “Let’s not do this.” He looks a bit dazed and confused before crawling off of Jisung. 

The tears fill his eyes and he feels absolutely pathetic. He has had numerous drunk one night stands in the past, but now he’s in a stranger’s apartment in a corner of the city he isn’t familiar with, and he’s about to start sobbing. The man throws him a look of pity and walks over to the door, creaking it wide open before leaving. He returns a few minutes later with a glass of water and a bulk-sized bottle of painkillers, handing them to Jisung and sitting a considerable distance away on the mattress.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, taking the water from the man’s hands. “Sorry about that.” He sends a nervous giggle into the air, hoping it dissipates the weird tension that he’s the culprit of creating. The man doesn’t say anything, only giving him a frown of pity and offering him the bottle of Advil.

“I’m kind of a mess,” he tacks on in an attempt to explain himself, fumbling with the cap of the Advil. He presses down on the top of the lid first, then cranking it to the right, but when that doesn’t work, he jerks it to the right and then applies pressure on the cap second. It doesn’t budge, even after Jisung has put all his might into opening the bottle, until it suddenly bursts open, flinging half of the pills and the bottle cap across the floor.

He stares at the sight with his mouth agape and shoulders sagging. Drags himself off of the mattress to pick up the mess he’s made, but once he starts to gather the pills one by one, he feels the familiar prickling in his eyes once again. He’s about to start full-on sobbing again in front of this stranger, but he doesn’t even have it in himself to hold it back anymore. So he lets the tears freefall onto the ground, wet drops replacing where the pills had just been. 

“Sorry,” he chokes out, wiping his eyes dry with his forearm and grabbing another fistful of pills from the floor. “I’m really sorry...” he repeats, not able to meet the man in the eyes. He lets out another titter, sounding uneasy and on edge. “I’m a fucking mess right now, aren’t I?” It’s a rhetorical question, but he still anticipates an answer. It doesn’t come. “Goddamn it.”

“Aren’t we all?” The man finally says. “A mess, I mean.” Jisung lifts his head to see the man, eyebrows pinched together and ruffling a hand through his hair. 

“Sure,” he sighs, slumping on the carpet. “Some people are less of a mess than others though,” he adds resentfully, the words stinging his tongue.

“Some people are better at hiding it than others,” the man corrects him. “Doesn’t mean they don’t go through just as much.” He sounds like he speaks from a position of mutuality.

“I guess you’re right.” 

“Yeah,” the man chuckles bitterly. “Well, that’s the type of insight that heartbreak gives you. Win some, lose some, if you catch my drift.”

Jisung nods, pressing his lips together. “Yeah, I get it,” he says, knowing full well that he could be minutes away from oversharing to this man—a stranger whose name he is unaware of and at this point is too embarrassed to ask. He should probably put his clothes back on and leave, saving himself from any of the humiliation he might face later. 

“Yeah? What happened to you?”

“We barely know each other,” Jisung glances sideways. “Isn’t it kind of weird to start venting about all my shit to you?”

The man shrugs. “You look like you need someone to talk to and I don’t have anything better to do cause—” he gestures around the dimly lit room. “So if you want, I’m all ears.” His words remind him of what the bartender, Jeongin, had said back in the bar. He wonders how transparent he comes off, with two strangers reading him like he has his every emotion written across his forehead. 

“Am I that obvious?” The man only shrugs for an answer, so Jisung exhales and runs a hand through his tangled hair. “Ruined a fourteen year friendship, what about you?”

“Split from my girlfriend of four years,” the man says, and it makes Jisung feel somewhat sad for him. It doesn’t seem to faze him though, as he giggles and continues. “Don’t feel that bad. It was mutual.”

Jisung nods. “Damn. That must s—” he stumbles on his words. He never claimed to be the best at providing emotional comfort, especially in this state. “That must still suck. Um, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah, well, it happens. I’m upset about it, don’t get me wrong, but it’s been like three months and I just don’t have the will to mope around about it any longer,” he stops for a moment and chuckles. “Hence, the bar.”

Jisung grimaces. “Sorry about that,” he repeats faintly. 

The man merely nods, effectively killing the conversation. Not knowing if that’s his cue to leave or not, he shifts his gaze from the door to the desk, laden with papers and an expensive looking monitor. A bit of the uneasiness returns and the air starts to weigh heavy. Weighs heavier and heavier until he’s blocked it out of mind. In his daze, he almost doesn’t notice when the man bores holes into the side of head, waiting for him to elaborate. Jisung does consider, for the briefest of moments, spilling his heart to fill the silence. Just for a second, he wonders if he is brave enough to come to terms with his regrets somewhere where there are no repercussions.

He is not.

The holes that the man is drilling into him multiply. He feels the emotions bubbling beneath the surface threatening to overflow, and he wants to let it. He wants to.

Smacking his hands down, he pulls himself off the ground and stills. He’s unsure of how to make his exit, fumbling with his thumbs to avoid the man’s eyes, which are trailing him as he shifts on his feet.

“I guess I’ll go,” he mumbles, scooping his shirt off the floor and slowly turning his body towards the door.

“...Okay.”

Jisung looks up. “I hope you sort out all of your, you know, problems.” He winces at how indifferent he sounds and gnaws at his upper lip.

“We’re all just trying to find our way. But you too, man. You too.”

…

After pulling another all-nighter on an article he was too afraid to miss the deadline for, he leaves his apartment around noon for the coffee shop, the sun directly above him, a relentless spotlight. He has never been able to keep up a regular routine implementing a planner for more than two weeks, but maybe he should invest in one. Had he utilized a planner, he could have likely avoided this situation.

His street is perhaps one of the busiest areas in the city. Housing multiple cafes, bakeries, family owned restaurants, and clothing stores, he lives right in the center of a shopping district. While lucky to be in such close proximity that he can walk to each place in a decent amount of time, one person’s luck can only stretch so far before it runs out. 

He reaches his usual cafe in only five minutes and glances into the store.

The undeniable side profile of Minho greets him.

It’s a strange thing, to think of someone he knows and realize he’s close to losing the connection that they once had. Of course, he’s had his list of falling outs with people, his friends at the time transforming into mere strangers overnight. It’s another thing to think of that someone and realize he’s picturing Minho. The fact that they’re not on speaking terms has been well-established. Still, he wishes that they would at least pretend to be, and ease his trepidations more, so he could willfully play ignorant. But perhaps that’s a wish he would be better off not fulfilling.

He considers not going inside. He puts great thought into this momentous decision. Pacing between the cafe door and the door of the shop next door, he decides on playing the waiting game instead. The act was monotonous while simultaneously meditating to begin with, but as the minutes continued to tick by, he became impatient, repeating his path once more. As he saw it, there was no justifiable reason as to why he _should_ deny himself an iced coffee just because Minho was in the same store. He doesn’t need to be worried. He doesn’t need to make this awkward.

The thoughts roar in his brain, chattering and buzzing like a swarm of pestilence and its volume sidetracks him so much so that he steps in front of something, not noticing what it was before hitting someone’s chest and flinching back in shock. He looks up in time to see Minho peering down at him. Minho always has had an intimidating aura about him, that Jisung had never been on the receiving end of. But this time, there is a heaviness and glare behind his eyes, dark fringe hanging over his forehead. 

Jisung looks at the ground.

He takes a deep breath and rounds his shoulders, preparing himself for what Minho could possibly say. The likely outcome was that he wouldn’t even say anything at all, given that they were at a standstill on this busy walkway. Or he could say something to assuage the silence that’s weighing down between them.

But Jisung also could say something as well, so he opens his mouth in a greeting—

“Long time no see,” Minho says with equal parts familiarity and coldness. Definitely ambivalence. 

Looking directly at Minho fills him with distress he doesn’t want to deal with, so he turns his head to look into the store window. 

“How have you been?” Minho follows his actions and peers into the storefront. “Do you want to go inside? We could catch u—”

Jisung shakes his head. “I’m good.” Short and clipped.

“Well, I’m gonna go on a walk. You want to come with?”

To anyone else, he would thank them for the offer and go on his merry way, but he doesn’t want to drive the wedge further between him and Minho. He follows Minho’s lead and begins to walk. 

When they get to walking together, it feels like they’re strolling down the same versions of themselves a month prior. Almost like they had returned to their previous selves, a time when things had been doubtlessly simpler. But then the uneasiness settles in, when neither of them have said anything even after a block of walking. It’s completely silent, save for the normal rumbling of cars and pedestrians. Jisung is set on waiting for Minho to speak first, doubtful of what would escape his mouth if he broke the silence. 

But it isn’t until after five whole minutes of their walk that Minho says anything.

“How are you, Jisung?” Minho offers, hesitancy lacing his words.

“You already asked that,” Jisung sighs, already exhausted from this standstill of a conversation. “But I’m good. How are you?”

A beat. “I’m fine.”

Jisung lifts his head up, and for the first time since they’ve bumped into each other, Jisung attentively scans Minho, wordlessly taking the state he’s currently in. He looks ashen, the circles under his eyes darker and more prominent. His hair is roused and messy, and Jisung’s face falls for a second time. 

“You look awful,” he says without thinking twice. “I mean,” he quickly corrects himself, “you look like you haven’t been getting a lot of sleep.” He curses himself for his less-than-ideal save. 

Minho frowns at that, his already cold demeanor chilling Jisung to the bone. But then he offers a small smile, quiet and genuine, and Jisung knows that they’re going to be okay. That he was just having another conversation with Minho, and they always exchanged endless banter like this. It’s okay.

“Work’s been busy,” Minho says, running a hand through his hair. And by work, Jisung knows that Minho means the job he has programming for an insurance company. “Well,” Minho chuckles, “Work’s always been busy. It’s just busier now, since they hired new recruits who can’t do their job correctly.”

“Is that where you’re headed right now?”

“Yeah,” Minho murmurs and then takes a sip of his coffee. “You don’t look much better yourself,” he points out heedfully.

And Jisung can’t deny that he’s right. He had barely gotten more than three hours of sleep a night for the past two weeks, his eyes adapting to the constant weight of drowsiness. It was why he had ventured at noon for coffee, the caffeine as a method to cope with his disturbed sleep schedule. 

“I guess not.”

Jisung quiets, unsure of what to say next.

Noticeably, there are Minho’s eyes, so far away from him and glued to the concrete.

It hits him all a little late. A part of him is startled by the fact that this is their first conversation in person since they’ve been back to the country. Doing what they would normally do together—get coffee during Minho’s lunch break at the cafe by Jisung’s apartment. So really, he should’ve expected something like this to happen sooner or later.

He struggles, to find the right words, to find what it is he wants to say in the first place. The one thing that sat on the tip of his tongue was the one thing he couldn’t voice.

Not now. 

Not like this.

“Hey,” Minho stops in front of an office building Jisung’s grown to be so familiar with. They stand in silence for a while, Minho with an iced coffee in his hands. “I have to go back to work now.” The cup is half empty.

“Okay,” he says, looking past Minho and towards the entrance of the building. “I’ll see you later then?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

He takes in Minho, takes in the person standing in front of him that meant everything, still means everything, even if he can’t tell him that. 

“And, Jisung,” Minho brushes his hand against Jisung’s fingers, causing his cheeks to warm up with a rosy blush dusting across his face. He can only hope that Minho doesn’t detect it. “We should do something soon. Maybe get lunch or dinner together, okay?” 

The words don’t come to Jisung. Before he can give an answer, Minho strolls towards the automatic doors and steps into the building, and he’s left standing in the middle of the sidewalk. His ankle, which hasn’t bothered him in a long time, twinges. A strange feeling settles over him—the ache in his heart is greater but the knots in his stomach have unraveled into a different jumble. Neater, perhaps, because he’s certain about just how much he doesn’t want this to be the new normal between him and Minho. But neater knots also meant tighter twists and loops, with no space for doubt or slack.

He’s been careless with the things he loves. Does he really deserve to keep them?

Jisung turns around to walk back to his apartment when he realizes that he’s still empty-handed, with no coffee in sight. Yet even without the caffeine that has propped up his vitality for the last several weeks, he feels awake, and he knows exactly why. 

…

As much as he would rather not admit it, Jisung has time. And when there is time to be spent, he spends it wondering.

He wonders if the look that Minho gives him—where his eyes are softened slightly and the corners of his mouth are lifted and he looks vibrant—if that look is... Well, if that look is something past just platonic friendship. 

Even if it was, what would he even do about that? He would be content with staring if it meant never disrupting their precarious dynamic right now, but eventually he would want it to be more. He’s wanted it to be more for so, so long.

Because Minho was never the one for pretty words, unlike Jisung. Instead, Minho shows his affection by just letting Jisung _be._ He lets him simply be, with warm hands, a warm smile, and warm open arms. Everything about him was the embodiment of warmth, of the soul and the heart.

And it’s not fair, the tightening in his chest whenever he thinks of Minho, or the way his heart beats like he’s a high-schooler with a crush.

But lately, he wonders how long it will be until Minho and him fall back into their newfound cycle: a short text, an even shorter reply that’s left on delivered, and cancelled plans between the two of them. The short conversation that Jisung had with Minho on their walk frequents his thoughts lately, and the more time he spends thinking, the more Jisung is prone to gauging whether or not he _should_ reach out to Minho. In his recollections, he’s maladaptive in his approach, distorting the memory of their walk together enough so he no longer perceives any malice in Minho’s tone, and no longer senses the awkwardness in both of their steps. 

So maybe he should reach out to save him this extensive time and effort it takes to mold these preset scenarios.

And he wonders again, except this time, it’s about whether or not he’ll keep that promise to himself. Nobody keeps the promises that they make to themselves in their head alone. There’s also nobody there to remind him to steadfastly pursue his own promises. If he keeps it this time, it will be out of sheer willpower.

He had the willpower to kiss Minho.

Wearily, he realizes that willpower is spent. Drained, even. But that was no excuse, was it? He had to make his own willpower instead of his excuses.

Instead, he takes up Seungmin’s offer and meets up with him and two of their other friends, Hyunjin and Felix, for lunch. They meet in a restaurant near Seungmin’s campus, with platters of meat and bowls of stew sitting in the middle of the table. Jisung doesn’t usually get the chance to see his friends all at once like this, not when Felix had been overseas for most of the summer, and Hyunjin had been dancing backup on tour for the past year. There are times when he doesn’t say anything at all, listening intently while the rest of them are animatedly engaged in a conversation about how Hyunjin got lost during the Vegas stop of the tour. He can distract himself from all of the pressing issues in his life that suddenly seem so trivial when he can just take the day to enjoy himself. 

“Jisung, how was your trip with Minho-hyung?”

Hyunjin directs the abrupt question towards him, ending the trance that he has willfully put himself in. He bites his lip and shifts his eyes to look at Seungmin, the only one with half an idea of what happened during the trip. Looking back at Hyunjin, who’s waiting for an answer expectantly, he drops his gaze onto the wooden table.

He could lie, but he’s never been a convincing liar. All the more reasons strangers could read him as openly as they could. 

“It was nice,” he offers curtly.

“Yeah?” Hyunjin tilts his head back and lets out a raucous laugh. “I saw all of the Instagram pictures, and they were really pretty, but hyung refuses to tell me anything more.”

“I’m sure,” he says, not concealing the traces of bitterness in his tone and downing another gulp of his water. “He can be like that.”

Hyunjin frowns, glancing side to side at Felix and Seungmin for their reactions. Felix only shrugs, and a few breaths pass before Hyunjin continues. 

“Something’s bothering you,” he states bluntly. 

Jisung shakes his head and tries to smile so that Hyunjin will divert the spotlight elsewhere, but he knows that his attempt fails miserably because Hyunjin quirks a suspicious eyebrow at him. He should’ve known that Hyunjin couldn’t be shaken off easily. So he sighs, aware that he can’t avoid the conversation forever—it was the reason why Seungmin had even suggested the get-together in the first place—but that didn’t mean he was impatiently waiting to discuss it in great detail.

“Minho-hyung and I aren’t on speaking terms anymore,” he puts simply. Yet, as the words fall out of his mouth, they feel like cotton in his mouth, uncomfortable and foreign. Not only to him, but to both Felix and Hyunjin, whose mouths are slack from the statement. Seungmin suppresses the surprise in his face, evidently unaware of the severity of the situation, and sends Jisung a sympathetic look. 

“What the fuck?” Felix says, his voice pitched two octaves higher than usual, more than Jisung has ever heard it. He sets down his water glass with enough force that it sends the entire table rattling. 

“Yeah, Jisung. What the fuck?” Hyunjin repeats, his brows furrowed in confusion. “What the fuck happened during the past month? Aren’t you two supposed to be, like, Tweedledee and Tweedledum or something?”

“I guess not,” he chuckles, strained. He takes in a sharp inhale of breath and says: “It was my fault though, to be honest.”

Hyunjin scoffs at that. “I find that hard to believe. Minho-hyung has the biggest soft spot for you, so it would take a lot for you to piss him off.”

Jisung stays silent, supplied with only agreeance from Felix and Seungmin. 

“Hyunjin’s right, Jisung,” Seungmin agrees. “I’ve never seen him legitimately be mad at anyone. Irritated, maybe, but not mad, and much less at you.”

“Yeah,” Felix chimes in, like they’re playing a relay game. “Like you guys went on your trip and things got weird right after? So unless you killed his family or something, I don’t—”

“Well, a lot has happened since then,” is all Jisung says, cutting through Felix’s rambling. 

“Yeah? Like what?” Hyunjin asks incredulously, his face not caring to veil his skepticism. 

He doesn’t have the energy to recount all of the moments that made Jisung’s heart swell with _hope_ and he certainly doesn’t feel the need to tell them about their first day in Los Angeles, their almost-kiss on the beach. Or how he still remembers—albeit his memory incredibly hazy—how they drunkenly made out the night they went to the club. He also doesn't want to tell them he misses Minho so much that it physically aches, or how much time he spends at night thinking about what could be different.

Or how much time the small voice in his head spends telling him he’s impulsive and stupid. 

So instead, this is what he offers: “We kissed in Los Angeles.”

“You’re fucking stupid,” Hyunjin says like it’s a plain fact. “How have you survived this long?”

“Wow, thanks,” he replies dryly, shooting a glare in Hyunjin’s direction. “Glad to know that’s how you think of me.”

“You’re telling me that all it took to ruin your friendship was a _kiss?”_

Jisung exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I mean, he hasn’t talked to me for more than ten minutes since we got back from our trip.” As he begins to speak, his mouth runs in front of his thoughts before he can stop himself. “Like I’m pretty sure we almost fucked in Los Angeles, and it was still fine then but—”

“Woah, back up,” Felix interrupts him. “You’re going to have to start the story from the beginning because...”

At the same time, Hyunjin asks: “Have you ever considered the fact that you might be in love with him?”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Jisung deadpans, but he can understand why Hyunjin believes as though Jisung is unaware of his feelings. He had spent the better half of his high school and college years vehemently denying any sort of romantic feelings he had towards Minho. Coming to accept it in the past two years, he’s surprised that he hasn’t voiced it verbatim. Or, perhaps Hyunjin just doesn’t remember.

Hyunjin only shrugs indifferently, motioning: _How was I supposed to know?_

“I’m not that oblivious to my feelings,” Jisung huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Beats me.”

Felix opens his mouth to speak, his voice dripping with bewilderment. “So let me get this straight. You’re telling me that all you did was _kiss_ him and now he's ignoring you?” 

Jisung nods, his cheeks suddenly warming up from the interrogation. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

Silence ensues around the table. Jisung stares down at his drink, with the ice from earlier melted into the water, and stirs the straw rapidly, creating a miniature whirlpool. Silence before Jisung breaks it, his voice small under his breath. 

“It doesn't really matter what happened. What matters now is that we're barely friends anymore and he doesn't even _try_ to reach out.”

Seungmin speaks for the first time in a while. “So why don't you... try?”

“I do try!” He yelps, his words coming out much more defensively than he would’ve liked. But he has reached out to Minho an embarrassing amount of times over the past month, ranging from greeting texts, to music recommendations, to invitations to get dinner. All of them had been met with a detached response.

He simpers back down and continues to stir up a maelstrom in his glass. “I’ve tried so many times, but if he doesn’t want to talk to me, then there’s nothing more I can do. So I’ve given up on trying.”

“And so even after you tried, you two still haven't talked.” Seungmin looks unconvinced. 

“Well,” Jisung hesitates, “we ran into each other yesterday and talked a little. But nothing really happened.” _Other than Minho inviting him out for food,_ his mind supplies, but he pushes the thought away.

He cringes when he looks up to meet the eyes of the other three, now looking incredibly exasperated. 

“How much more information are you hiding from us?” 

Jisung says nothing, but he’s sure that his face gives away the answer.

Seungmin sighs, with a quiet concern brewing in his expression. “I didn’t want to say this because it’s not my place, but I guess it is now, because you’re being so incredibly frustrating, it’s actually unbearable to listen to. So I’m gonna be selfish and say it outright. Minho-hyung never stops coming over to my apartment to complain about it being hard to be able to talk to you or hang out with you and it’s driving me insane. And then I go out, and here you are, moping about the exact same thing he is. So please, if you want anything to be fixed, you just have to fucking reach out. He cares about you, Jisung,” and then Seungmin mutters under his breath, “I wish he wasn’t a dense asshole sometimes, but he really cares about you. So please, save us all the misery and just _talk_ to him.”

Hyunjin and Felix both nod in unison. 

When Felix speaks once more, all he adds is, “Yeah, Jisung, we just want you to be happy.”

And maybe all he needed was that final push. He looks at the gentle smile on Felix’s face, the tender yet troubled expressions on Seungmin and Hyunjin, and he feels an overwhelming surge of gratitude. That's why his friendships work.

…

Like most nights, he spends his time lying in his bed, eyes glued onto the dark ceiling. The room is usually illuminated faintly by his phone screen, the shadows that are cast hovering in the corners where the walls meet each other, but his phone is tucked away somewhere under the covers tonight. It’s too early to sleep—only eleven at night—so he continues to stare at the ceiling until he can trace individual patterns on the surface, a squiggly mess of outlines.

The truth is, Seungmin’s words continue to repeat themselves in his head even hours after their meal together. Seungmin was never one to be dishonest, but how much of what he was saying based in truth? How much of it was just a gross exaggeration? The answers he has in subconscious makes his head swirl in both positive and negative manners. Positive, because maybe Minho misses him just as much as he misses Minho. It wouldn’t hurt him to just send a follow up text, ask him if he’s doing okay, and invite him out for drinks. Negative, because if Seungmin had been overstating Minho’s actions and Jisung did what they all wanted him to do, then it probably would tighten the feeling in his heart into an inextricable knot. He has to know a clear pathway before he acts any more. 

It gnaws at his chest, causing it to throb; he doesn’t know how to act in regards to Minho anymore.

Eventually, the positive side wins out, and Jisung pulls his phone out from under the covers and hovers over the _messages_ app. He taps on it and types in a message, hoping a quick _hey_ would be enough to suffice. He deletes the message and settles on being as transparent as he can with a simple _hi, i miss you._

The instant he sends the message, the three dots that indicate that Minho is typing appear. Yet, it’s a few minutes later until he responds. 

_Are you home right now?_

Jisung responds back with a, _yes,_ and right away, his phone flashes with a call from Minho.

“... Jisung?” the voice stammers, close and far on the other end of the line. 

Immediately. “Hey.”

“Hey. I’m coming over.”

Before Jisung has the chance to respond, the phone begins to beep, indicating that Minho has already hung up.

…

Minho arrives at his apartment a little before midnight. He’s clutching a bag of convenience store snacks and sodas in one hand. He sheepishly waves at Jisung with the bag in his hand. He steps into his apartment. Now that he’s inside his apartment, his entrance is playing out like a nightmarish stop motion film, and Jisung feels disoriented. With such short notice, Jisung hadn’t been able to clean or organize anything. There’s a slew of papers on the floor. Miscellaneous hoodies. Water bottles. A while ago, he wouldn’t have minded—Minho knew the natural state of his apartment anyway—but seeing it now makes him conscious of everything in every corner of his complex.

He leads Minho over to the couch and jerkily gestures for him to sit. Minho drops the bag on the coffee table and pulls out a can of apple flavored soda, offering the pink peach flavored can to Jisung. Taking it out of Minho’s grasp, he pops the tab open and takes a small sip, the bubbly feeling of carbonation blossoming in his mouth and distracting him momentarily from the situation at hand. He’s under the guise that Minho wants to catch up, or why else would he show up to Jisung’s apartment unprompted? He’s not sure where they should begin.

If they should even begin at all, for that matter.

Their cans of soda now sit on the coffee table, and Minho tilts his head back on Jisung’s couch, resting it there like he always has. Both of them sit restlessly. Neither of them make a move to speak. Silence had been normal between them and he had handled it just fine, regardless of the situation. But this kind of silence, the worst kind of silence that makes his gut churn and cheeks burn, the kind where he’s at a loss for what to say. He feels his skin prickle, his stomach beginning to roil with the same nausea-inducing discomfort that has become a part of his daily routine in the past month. 

“How are you?” Jisung asks, because there’s nothing else he could possibly say. It’s customary enough, yet he imperceptibly shakes his head at the irony that this is a first, making small talk with Minho as if they’ve never met. But if he and Minho were going to act like strangers, he might as well start now. 

“A little tired, but I’m okay. How are you?”

“Same,” he lies. Truthfully, he had almost dozed off before texting Minho, but the adrenaline rocketing through his veins kept him wide awake, his head buzzing, because if he was anything but alert in Minho’s presence right now, the impending disaster that could occur forced his eyelids open. His guard was up and through the roof. “Just the usual; working, sleeping, eating.”

Minho hums. Jisung watches him as he closes his eyes and presses his eyelids together so tightly that his nose scrunches. 

He picks at a thumbnail hanging off his index finger. The fan buzzes. Outside, the cicadas are droning with the sirens, heavy and irksome.

The ache in his chest only grows before Minho flutters his eyelids open and stares at the television in front of them.

Minho doesn’t look away from the television, his eyes mirroring the dark and empty screen. Jisung can take a hint, but a sudden urge to jump in between Minho and the television washes over him, before disappearing faster than a blink.

“Do you want to watch something?” Jisung suggests.

“Sure.” Minho tilts his head back and looks upward at a point halfway between the top of the television and the ceiling.

He walks over to the TV stand to pick up the remote, standing there for a moment. Should he put something on? Should he ask Minho if he was okay watching a show he wanted to watch? No, that was trying too hard. He fiddles with the remote, fumbling and nearly dropping it. Finally:

“What do you want to watch?”

Crickets join the cicadas outside, a cacophony of pestilence.

“Anything’s fine. I don’t care.”

Jisung exhales, turning the television on and scrolling through the Netflix library. Nothing particularly interesting catches his eye, so he settles on playing an episode of some reality baking show he’s never heard of, hoping that it’s dramatic enough to distract him for the time being. 

Minho has not budged an inch, not even to lift his neck to see the television. With the pace of a turtle, he plops back onto the couch and settles with a sigh, not realizing how close he is sitting to Minho, until he clears his throat. Jisung looks down and immediately scoots further away, placing a considerable amount of distance between the two of them. 

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Don’t worry about it.”

The show begins, and it’s nothing special. As most competitive baking shows go, it’s full of dramatic dialogue probably taken out of context, theatrical zoom-ins panning straight to a cut of a contestant criticizing another for questionable technique, and fast-paced, anxious music pasted over every scene. As much as Jisung enjoys these kinds of things on a regular basis, there’s tension bulging around them, too big for the room they occupy, spilling over and so tangible Jisung can feel it pressing down on his chest, suffocating him. 

Minho’s attention is solely focused on the show, his posture rigid and eyes boring holes into the screen. 

Why was Minho even here? 

Why did Seungmin insist on reaching out? 

Most of all, why did Jisung agree to it? 

The reason why is simple: because he wants everything to go back to normal, wants everything to be like they’ve always been. The unaccountable want for that—beyond wanting Minho to reciprocate his feelings, beyond wanting Minho to look at him as something besides a best friend—he wants them to be okay. 

He looks at Minho again, taking only a quick glance at his side profile, and diverts his gaze back to the screen. 

The judge makes a snarky comment. The baker on the receiving end deflates. The host makes a jibe. It cuts to a commercial. And then the ads roll by, for kid-friendly tableware, appliance warranties, and biodegradable, eco-friendly stainless steel utensils that nine out of ten experts recommend, and the show is back, with its melodramatic music and cheap sound effects of knives swishing and metal clanging. 

It’s funny; Jisung used to always be so sure that he knew what Minho was thinking most of the time. Once, the justification was that they had similar thought processes, so if Jisung was to think one thing about a certain topic, then Minho would most likely feel the same. 

Regrettably, he doesn’t have any clue about how Minho feels at this moment in time, or about the predicament they’re entangled in. Jisung looks fixedly at the ground.

The show is not capturing any of his interest. Maybe if there wasn’t an elephant in the room, its presence inhabiting his entire train of thought, the show would be decent comic relief.

When he looks back up, he finds Minho’s gaze landing on _him,_ fatigued but inquisitive as he peers deep into Jisung and searches for something that Jisung himself is unaware of. He looks away once he meets Minho’s eyes, their stare burning with intense curiosity, and averts his own staring back down onto his feet, to hide his glaring vulnerability. 

“This show sucks ass,” Minho voices after the episode ends, which was what Jisung had been thinking all along, the icy tension abating enough for Jisung to finally breathe properly. “Why does baking have to be so dramatic?”

“To boost viewer count,” Jisung deadpans. “But also, cameras and time limits make people nervous. You try baking on television with an entire crew in your face, and then come back to me.” He miraculously delivers his whole answer without his voice cracking.

Minho scoffs, pulling his legs under him, feet pressed onto the couch cushions. “I think I could do better.” It’s likely true.

Minho rarely cracks under pressure. 

“Really,” Jisung states, bemused.

A car rumbles down the street outside the window, its exhaust pipe obnoxiously loud. 

Minho shrugs. “Really.”

Jisung reaches across the table for the remote to change the show, clicking on another show, a historical drama this time that looks neither interesting nor entertaining. He sinks back down, sinks back into the habit of sitting with his body nearly pressed against Minho’s. 

Yet this time, Minho doesn’t push him away. 

He takes a hold of Jisung’s shoulders after a moment’s hesitation and lies him against his chest. Then, it’s the sensation of Minho’s fingers running through his hair. It feels familiar, maybe because it is a sensation Jisung is so used to. 

A month can’t undo fourteen years’ worth of time, even if it seems like it does. 

Still, they don’t talk during the episode. Minho would usually provide commentary on anything and everything he found to be funny or grotesque, or both. His face has no hint of emotion written on it, completely blank and unfeeling. 

“That was trash too,” Jisung mutters, once the ending credits roll.

“It wasn’t even remotely good.”

“I can’t believe I just wasted my time watching that. I mean, I don’t mean that I wasted my—um, I just wouldn’t spend my time watching that show again.”

Minho knits his brows together, no trace of sentiment present. “You’re the one who keeps choosing the shows.”

“You’re the one who said anything was fine, Mr. ‘I Don’t Care.’ I’m sorry my shows don’t fit your taste.”

Minho sighs. “I can’t say that they do.”

“Then maybe you should’ve chosen the show instead of me, if my preferences are so inferior to yours.”

“Jisung, knock it off. I’m not going to argue with you over this.”

“I wasn’t trying to argue with you either.”

They lapse into another spell of taciturnity, and Jisung presses pause before Netflix can autoplay the next episode. It’s still not the comfortable type of silence that he has come to know and appreciate with Minho, but it’s significantly less stuffy than it was when Minho first came into his apartment.

Minho finally smiles, just barely, and looks away when he says, “I missed you, Sung.”

“I missed you, too,” Jisung replies under his breath. 

It is one thing to think something, something that comes as easily as breathing, but it is another thing to say it out loud. Just because something is true does not make it any easier to say. 

“I haven’t even asked you about your new job.” Minho says after a prolonged quiet. “How is it?”

“It’s fine. I mean,” Jisung begins, rolling off of Minho’s chest and positioning himself upright with minimal difficulty. “I’ve been on track with all my deadlines, even though most of the time I barely meet them. But time and pressure make my writing better, to be honest. It also creates diamonds, so what can I say?”

“Valid. Your writing is great,” Minho agrees. 

“Yes. Thank you.” There’s no use in him being humble. “My contract with the company might extend into a permanent position. Not sure how I feel about being tied down to a single company, but that’s what’s in the works for now.”

“That’s impressive, Jisung.”

Slight laughter rocks Jisung’s chest. “Look at us, talking about jobs and shit. How’s yours?”

“Everytime you ask me, my answer never changes. It’s the same old shit every single day. Surprise, surprise: I go to work, sit at the corporate computer, read passive aggressive emails, appease the higher ups, and sit in some meetings. Then I go home, and I do the same thing all over again,” Minho shakes his head. “My home might as well just be my second office.”

“Welcome to my world. My home _is_ my office.”

“First person insight is the way to go. I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know how you do it. I can’t get into the working mood when I work from home.”

“Well, join the club. I can’t either. It’s exactly why I’m always procrastinating on everything I do.”

Minho snickers. “Should’ve guessed.”

“Yeah, you should’ve.”

Round three of silence arrives, and the tension is sitting dormant in both of their laps, tamed for now. Jisung pulls out his phone to check the time; it’s late, already a quarter past one. Prompted to do the same thing, Minho mirrors him, pulling out his phone from his back pocket and checking the time. His eyes widen slightly, and he stands up from the couch.

“Uh..., it's late,” Minho falters. “I still have work tomorrow, so... I should probably go.”

“Oh, yeah,” Jisung scurries up from his position on the sofa, nearly tripping over himself to get to the door. “Let me walk you out.”

“Sure,” Minho mumbles. They stroll over to the door and Minho twists the lock, turning his wrist to open the handle. They both stand in front of the open door frame, with Jisung rocking back and forth on his heels, and Minho like a stone pillar. Minho waits for Jisung to say something, before he extends, “We need to see each other more often.”

Jisung bounces on the balls of his feet. “Yeah, we will.”

But Minho doesn’t turn to leave, so they continue to stand in the doorway. 

When Jisung looks up, their eyes meet, and there’s a moment where he’s enraptured by Minho’s intense stare. It’s captivatingly fierce, and as Minho advances closer with small and hesitant steps, until their faces are so close that he can count every single eyelash along Minho’s lash line. He is frozen. Minho takes a hold of his hand, running his thumb tenderly over one of Jisung’s fingers. He raises another hand and settles it against the curve of Jisung’s face, his other thumb stroking the skin right above his lip. Jisung’s heart pounds at a rapid pace, threatening to beat out of his chest. Then Minho inches even closer, until they’re chest to chest, and Jisung’s head is vibrating from the contact. 

Suddenly, Minho’s lips are on his, just as gentle as it was back in Los Angeles. He doesn’t think he could ever grow tired of this feeling, the bliss and peacefulness he gets from kissing Minho. He’s living in a dream, drowning in tranquility. The feeling doesn’t last longer than a few seconds, a euphoric, concrete peak quickly dissipating into just a memory, when Minho pulls away, giving him another smile that leaves his knees weak.

“I’ll call you later,” Minho whispers, his voice reverberating against the shell of his ear, before turning around to leave. 

He’s gone in a blink of an eye, leaving Jisung standing in the middle of the hallway, door still ajar with a million hall light wishes. 

…

At random intervals throughout the week, that ephemeral sensation of Minho’s lips on his pops into his head. When he’s working on another article, when he’s eating dinner, even when he’s moments away from falling asleep, he’ll smile to himself at the feeling. Everything was more blissful, the sun brighter, the sky bluer, the air crisper. Jisung stays on cloud nine—keeping his phone within arm’s reach all week—and waits around for Minho’s call like a lovesick puppy. 

Minho eventually calls. His fever dream comes to an end.

Eventually, he ends up by the doors of Minho’s office, restless with the thoughts of _what ifs_ and _what nows._ Waiting by the side entrance that Minho had specifically instructed him to do, he watches as other people flow out of the building. He fidgets with his hands, cracking each of his knuckles twice before Minho strolls out minutes later, wearing his work clothes, a baby blue button up and black slacks. 

Every possible course he had planned for this conversation to end up at dissolves into daunting nothingness.

“Hey,” Minho smiles at him with a lopsided grin, brushing past his shoulder as they begin to walk together onto the main sidewalk. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“It’s all good,” he responds, shoving his clammy hands into the front pocket of his jeans. Minho says nothing more; so it was going to be another conversation like _this._

In all honesty, he should’ve expected it. There was really nothing he could say that would paint him in a better light while also explaining why anything happened, in New York, in Los Angeles, or even back home in Seoul. When he remembers that night, it becomes an evanescent memory flitting amongst the thousands of things he has stored. Partly, it’s his fault. He didn’t want to relive the best moments of his life knowing that they were never supposed to last. 

Surely, it wasn’t supposed to last, because Minho wanted to forget so badly that, by diffusion, Jisung had tried to forget, too. But after a quick rejogging of his memory the week prior, here he is, walking in tandem with Minho.

The muted air grows thicker as every wordless second elapses.

“I’m sorry,” Minho finally declares, sighing as he brushes his bangs out of his face. “I’ve been an awful friend to you in the past couple of weeks, not catching up with you like I usually would, and I’m sorry. I don’t want you to think that I don’t care about our friendship, because I do,” he continues to ramble. “I really do, so I’m truly sorry.”

Jisung bites down hard on his bottom lip, unable to look directly into Minho’s eyes. “I’m also sorry.”

“You shouldn’t be. At least you were trying. I was just…” Minho exhales, tilting his face up to the sky. “I was being a bad friend, and you don’t deserve that. I owe you a dozen apologies.”

A pause. 

“You say you're sorry, but can you at least tell me why you were...?”

He knows why. He just wants—needs—to hear Minho say it.

“We should talk.”

“Isn’t that what we’re doing right now?”

Minho narrows his eyes at Jisung for a short second, still lasting long enough that Jisung fixates on the noticeably prominent bags under his eyes. 

“You know what I mean.” Another pause, until Minho tacks on, talking under his breath, voice breaking: “But I don’t want to.”

“But we have to. It’s not fair to...” _To me,_ he thinks silently, but pushes the selfish thought away. “It’s not fair to either of us.”

“... I know.”

“So. Are we okay?” Jisung asks when the silence begins to settle down on his chest more heavily than usual. 

“We are.” Then Minho adds, “We’ll always be okay.”

“I know, but it just feels like...” Jisung says all at once, before he can really make sense of what he wants to say next. It's just stating the obvious now. “If you have something to say, please just say it.”

“Then let’s go back to my apartment. I’m not going to have this conversation with you in the middle of the street.”

He walks, in an aching silence, just to wait to arrive at Minho's apartment for him to say what’s on his mind. Attempts to take in the sight of the city, but everything blurs together in one shade of concrete gray and one-sided glass hues. The walk there leaves him one thing in his mind: it’s one thing to know what someone else wants. It’s another thing to know what he wants for himself. He did believe that having Minho back as a friend was good enough, but if this was the consequence of that—the lingering awkwardness, the uncomfortable small talk—then maybe it would be better for him to have nothing at all. What’s the point of holding onto a shell of a friendship? Perhaps he’s making his judgment calls too early, but all of his prior expectations of how this conversation was going to play out had not come into fruition. 

Making it into Minho’s apartment complex, they spend the next few minutes quietly in each other’s presence. The stroll across the lobby, the elevator ride, the walk into the hallway, before Jisung finds himself facing a white door, listening to the soft clicks of the keypad while Minho presses in the code. The door then unlocks and he takes in the apartment, with not a single thing having changed since he had last been here. 

That isn’t unusual, considering that most people don’t do entire renovations of their living spaces unplanned and in a month’s time, yet it serves as a reminder that their friendship had been at its peak only such a short duration ago. 

Minho flops onto the couch already, and Jisung follows suit, situating himself next to Minho. 

Another moment passes, and Jisung is growing impatient at the silence, the same way that the distance between him and Minho continues to grow. It makes no difference whether they’re conversing through text, conversing through a phone call, or conversing in person because he feels the gaping rift between them expand deeper and deeper until he can no longer see the bottom. 

“I know I owe you an explanation,” Minho starts, clasping his hands together and hanging his head. “I’m sorry. I know I told you this already, and you probably don’t want to hear it, but I’m s—”

“You don’t—”

“I know, but...” Minho’s voice has a slight shake to it, but then he throws his head back in a series of small giggles. “I don’t even know how to phrase this.” He takes in a large inhale, and Jisung watches as Minho’s chest rises and falls. The next words come out oddly steady. “I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to be off the radar for so long. But also, I don’t know, Jisung. I don’t really know what to say."

“Oh.” Jisung’s chest tightens. 

He can sense gears in Minho’s head turning, so instead of interrupting Minho’s short-circuiting thought process, he allows for the silence to return so that Minho is able to think clearly. 

“I guess I just...” Minho’s voice begins to crack on the syllables. “I hope you know that our friendship means the world to me. I just...”

“We’ll be okay,” Jisung supplies. “You said it yourself. That we’ll always be okay.”

“I did, didn’t I? _”_ Minho snickers, bittersweet. “We will be okay. I meant it when I said that. It’s just that,” he smiles, shakily, “I guess I just made myself hope that whatever happened between us meant something, and I got ahead of myself because I don’t know if...” Minho trails off, then looks up and meets Jisung’s gaze. “Well, can I ask you something?” 

Jisung nods, his lungs failing to assist him with breathing, so Minho continues. 

“Please just tell me the truth, because I don’t even know what’s happening anymore. But did any of what happened mean something to you?”

Minho’s quiet afterwards, contemplative.

“What are you talking about?” Jisung stutters out, voice coming out small and unsure. 

“You know what I’m talking about, Jisung,” Minho mutters under his breath, like he’s genuinely afraid. Jisung has an idea of what for, but he feels dizzy at the thought, hopeful that it’s not just another assumption he’s jumped to. “Please don’t play dumb with me.”

“You really thought it didn’t mean anything to me?”

Minho raises a brow, and Jisung knows that this wasn’t the answer he had been expecting, because the confusion on his face is unmistakably evident. 

“It did,” Jisung murmurs. “It meant something to me.”

Inhaling, his chest constricts until there’s no more room. Minho continues to stare at him with sad eyes that Jisung is unable to meet, gaze locked on his clasped hands instead.

“I really....” he begins. “I’m really sorry. I like you. A lot. I should’ve made that clearer from the start. And I don’t know what’s really happening either, but I don’t want to forget what happened between us.”

“I do too, but,” Minho whispers hesitantly, his voice quivering along with every word. “You aren’t just saying it to make me happy? Do you really mean that?”

“Of course,” he exhales, because he has never been more certain of anything in his life. Shuffling closer towards Minho, he pauses so closely in front of his face that he can feel Minho’s exhale on his nose, lighter than air itself, and maintains eye contact. _Continues_ to keep his stare steady because this is Minho, who holds the world in his eyes and words in his grin. And when Minho greets him with a smile, the corners of his eyes creasing and relief glowing across his face, and that’s all it takes for Jisung to minimize the distance between them. 

It’s not their first kiss, but it’s different from all the other ones they’ve shared. Warm and soft, Jisung sinks his lips deeper into Minho. When he eventually pulls away, the most dazzling grin is spread across Minho’s mouth. Jisung’s heart is threatening to leap out of his chest.

He begins to laugh to himself, soft chuckling at first until it gradually grows into boisterous guffaws. Because of _course_ Jisung would claim to know Minho best, to always be three steps ahead everyone else in the vast realm of Minho’s thoughts; and yet, it would still take this long, to the point where _Minho_ —who always wore his emotions on his sleeve, but would never verbally admit to them—was the one taking the initiative and asking.

He must have mistaken Minho’s uncertainty for his own; perhaps he had been too blinded by his plight to realize that they were on the same page the entire time. 

He cranes his head up slightly, meeting Minho directly in the eyes. “Did you really think I’d just kiss you just for fun? Like I was just using you to pass time or something? Wait no, actually, don’t answer that. Of course I meant it.” 

Minho flushes bright red and averts his gaze. “You weren’t exactly making it easy for me to say anything.”

“I guess not, but we’re so stupid, you do know that, right? Absolute fucking idiots.”

“Speak for yourself,” Minho huffs, clearly unphased, and still turned away from Jisung. 

“No, look at me,” Jisung teases, gently cupping Minho’s face with his hand and turning his head so that they’re once again facing each other. “We had so many opportunities to clear things up, and we just... didn’t. Why did we wait so fucking long?”

“I don’t know.” Minho’s face scrunches up. “I was just trying to prepare myself for the worse.”

“I kissed you first, and you think _you_ had to prepare for the worst?” Jisung snickers, leaning forward to kiss the pout away. “Oh my god, you’re seriously in _love_ with me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Minho says, squirming away from Jisung’s touch, but the blush on his face tells an entirely different story.

His vehement denial only serves to make Jisung laugh harder. “I always knew you loved me, none of that hypothetical bullshit that you’re always on about. But it’s okay, because I love you too.”

Naturally, he’s said those words countless times. But it feels good to say out loud, without another stormy thought blocking the implications. The choppy, uncertain thoughts that plagued him for the last month melt away, all his overthinking and overcomplication of what he meant to Minho, of what Minho meant to him. It feels liberating to say, to know how much he means it, unshackling him from all the fear he has left. Even if they’re just spoken words, it feels good to see Minho’s eyes widen a bit in surprise. Even if he knows that Minho’s always known in the back of his mind how much Jisung truly loves him.

“You’re so damn cheesy,” Minho replies, eyes twinkling. “If I would’ve known that you were going to be this much of a sap, I would’ve prevented myself from getting into this.”

“Really now?” He asks with a smirk. “You _love_ me too much to do that,” he says, stretching out each syllable of the words and shoving his face in front of Minho’s.

 _“_ Please stop. _”_

“Should I? But you’re so cute when you’re flustered,” Jisung says, and it only serves to increase the heat in Minho’s face. 

“Yeah,” Minho rolls his eyes, but even as he does, there’s underlying affection in his tone. “You caught me. I love you, Han Jisung. Now, please quit doing that.”

…

“Sungie.”

“Yeah?” He grumbles, opening one eye, the other one still seeking slumber. 

“I knew you were awake,” Minho says, shifting in the covers and wrapping one arm around his waist. The other hand is swaddled in Jisung’s hair, threading through his strands gently. 

“Go to sleep,” he groans, his eyes fluttering shut, but moves closer so that he’s in direct contact with Minho, the body heat that his skin radiates providing comfort in spite of the sweltering summer heat. “You still have to work tomorrow, and I’m tired as hell.”

“I don’t want to.” There’s an apparent pout in Minho’s voice, but Jisung doesn’t give in. “Why is it that the one day you want to sleep early, _I_ don’t want to?”

“Because,” Jisung mumbles as Minho twirls his hair around his finger, half asleep and searching for a good comeback. He comes up empty-handed. “It just is. Go to sleep, Min. I’ll still be here tomorrow morning,” he adds as assurance. 

Minho entangles their limbs even further and gives him a peck of a kiss. “I know. But let me just commit this to memory before I sleep.”

Jisung scoffs. “I’ve probably been here more times than you and I could count. That wasn’t enough to commit to memory for you?”

“It was,” Minho responds. “But it’s the first time that you’re here as, you know, my boyfriend.”

There’s something about the way that the word _boyfriend_ rolls off of Minho’s tongue, so effortless and easy, that has Jisung shivering, despite the fact that he’s under the layers of blankets on Minho’s bed and Minho’s body is pressed against his. When the air around them engulfs the two of them with its heat, he still registers the chills creeping down his spine. 

“Who’s the cheesy one now?” he asks softly.

“Still you.” His tone is fondly smug.

“But I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Minho continues, his hands suddenly halting to a standstill in his hair. “Do you remember that thing that you were writing on our trip?”

He makes a noise of affirmation, his thoughts falling into a lull in the midst of darkness.

“You never told me what it was about.”

His mouth perks up into a small smile.

“All in due time,” Jisung answers with a breathy chuckle, his eyes still closed, resting. “Now, _please_ go back to sleep. We can talk about this more later, when we’re actually awake.”

Minho giggles into the night, the frequency of his breaths decreasing right afterward. 

... 

“Are you two okay now?” Felix whispers into his ear, shifting his eyes from around the room and back to Jisung.

Jisung, with confusion clouding his expression, turns to look at Felix and tilts his head to the side. “What are you talking about?”

“You know.” Felix looks fixedly across the table, where Hyunjin and Minho are currently engaged in a heatedly gripping conversation about something. Jisung couldn’t care to keep tabs on the direction their conversations turned towards. “You and Minho-hyung.”

“Oh?” Jisung frowns, picking up his glass and taking a sip from it.

“Yeah. Hyunjin told Seungmin and I that he was worried that it would be awkward to invite both of you here at once, but he’s going back on tour with his dance crew soon, so there’s not much he could do.”

Jisung hums, the amusement beginning to bubble up in his stomach.

“But Changbin and Seungmin should get here soon, so it won't be as awkward. But I was just wondering.” The volume of Felix’s voice drops even lower, like he is afraid of Minho overhearing him talking about their supposedly strained dynamic. “Did you two sort it out? You look way better than you did last time.”

Was he that obvious? Before Jisung can say anything, Changbin arrives on cue, his voice booming in his eardrums over the music playing in the background. Seungmin follows closely behind.

“Did we miss anything?” He inquires, pulling a chair from under the table, the legs screeching in protest as it scrapes across the floor. Hyunjin looks up and greets the couple with a smile and a wave, while Minho nods as acknowledgment before they return to their prior states. As expected, Changbin busies himself and immediately joins in on the trivial argument.

Jisung scoffs. “I can’t believe you’re late,” he says, eyes specifically focused on Seungmin as he settles in the chair beside him. 

“News flash, some of us have responsibilities.”

“I also have responsibilities, but you don’t give me any sympathy for being late,” Jisung fires back. “Why are you the exception?”

“Because you’re always late,” Seungmin retorts, shrugging and signaling to Felix to pass him some of the beer. After he takes a sip, he sighs and gives Jisung a familiar look, the same one that Felix had been giving him before he arrived. “Did you and Minho-hyung talk it out yet?”

Jisung shrugs, while Felix taps on his shoulder frantically, speaking in a hushed but eager tone. “Dude, this is the perfect time to ease some of the tension. You have some alcohol in your system, and it’s low stakes here. Just start a small conversation or something. We have your back in case it gets too awkward.”

He looks towards Seungmin, who doesn’t say anything, but nods at Felix’s suggestion. 

Then, he flickers his gaze towards Minho before sinking in his seat slightly. “Are you sure? I don’t want to make this more awkward for you guys.”

“Didn’t we tell you last time? He could never be mad at you,” Felix reassures him with a pat on the back. “Just try.”

“If you’re sure...” he bites down on his lower lip, focusing his gaze back at Minho. _Oh, they were in for a treat._ “Minho-hyung?”

“Yeah?” He says softly, halting his conversation with Hyunjin and Changbin and turning around to look directly at Jisung.

“I was wondering if…” Jisung coughs, purposely increasing the tension in his tone and biting back anything that would blow his cover. “You would like to be my boyfriend?”

The corners of Minho’s lips lift up into a smirk. “But I thought I already was?”

There are a few beats of silence between them until—

The group erupts. Hyunjin begins to cough on his drink, nearly choking, whereas Changbin and Seungmin share the same bewildered expression with equal parts resignation. On the other hand, Felix grins, exuberantly patting Jisung on the shoulder.

Jisung can’t contain his amusement any longer, bursting into loud guffaws and uproariously clapping his hands together. He catches sight of Minho, whose eyes are softened into half-moons, and he dwindles down, grinning back with equal mirth. 

“God, I knew this was a bad idea,” Hyunjin eventually croaks out, hitting his chest with a clenched fist. “I should've never given you advice. God,” he repeats. “I really should’ve just let you two suffer on your own.”

…

Jisung finds himself standing outside of a familiar office building before noon strikes, with two iced coffees in hand. A surge of people walk out of the sliding doors, causing him to stumble back so that they don’t ram straight into him.

He walks inside with as much conviction as he can, bypassing the security and the front desk with his employee facade. As frequently as he does this, his adrenaline still spikes, but he’s made it to the elevators, safe and alone, letting out the breath he had been holding the entire time. 

Eventually, he makes it to Minho’s floor, careful not to create a commotion with the rest of the workers. But Minho is at the end of the row of desks, sitting by the window with one earbud plugged into his ear, idly tapping away on his laptop.

"Hey," Jisung calls out, nudging Minho on the shoulder while setting one of the coffees down onto the table. "I got you this."

"Thank you," Minho responds, and gives Jisung a quick smile, grateful for the pleasant interruption from his torpid deskwork. He takes a lengthy sip before exhaling, tilting his head up to look at Jisung with a grin. "What are you doing here?”

Jisung pulls out a rolling chair from the desk next to Minho and skids next to Minho, silently hoping that whoever the desk belongs to won’t mind that he’s borrowing it for the time being. “What? But I always come and visit you at work!”

Minho rolls his eyes and turns back to his laptop, tapping the keys on an opened email draft. While Minho is invested in writing his email, Jisung spots the collage of pictures taped onto the divider between the desks. Most of the pictures are ones he’s seen countless times before, his own copy of the prints sitting on his desk in neat black frames. But there are a couple new pictures taken on their trip together—mostly on Minho’s phone—with dates written in thin black marker in each corner.

One is of them at the restaurant together, the camera positioned at an awkward angle so that it only captures half of their faces, but their disappointingly unaesthetic bowls, empty of noodles or broth, are in the middle of the frame, only because they had forgotten to take a picture before eating. The next one is of Jisung alone, walking in the middle of the sidewalk in New York, posed as a perfect “candid” shot, even if he was perfectly aware that Minho was snapping pictures of him the entire time. Perhaps he even snuck in a well-timed pose for the portrait.

“Nice pictures,” Jisung says, tracing his finger on the glossy paper. 

“Of course they’re nice,” Minho states, shutting down his computer and closing the lid. “I was the one who took them.”

The last two pictures are the two of them on the beach. It’s a simple selfie: Minho’s flashing a peace sign next to his face with Jisung behind him, chin resting on Minho’s shoulder. Their faces take up most of the frame, enough that if there was no context behind the picture, nobody would know where they were beyond just under a pale blue sky. 

Right beside it is the shot that follows. It’s a somewhat real candid shot this time; Minho’s eyes are crinkled while Jisung is blurred on the side because he had been laughing the entire time, his mouth wide and eyes folded. 

The moment is imprinted in his brain because Minho had commented on how they should keep their faces expressionless, except for one corner of Jisung’s lips, which was barely ticked up in a grin. They were able to hold the expression for another five seconds before cracking, their laughter about nothing in particular filling up the air around them. 

His mouth twitches up into a close-lipped smile. 

“You should send this one to me later,” Jisung says, finger still lingering on the picture. He turns around, meeting Minho’s eyes—fastened on him—which instantly turns the tips of Minho’s ears scarlet. 

“I will,” Minho coughs, swiveling back around to face his desk, but now he no longer has something to occupy himself with his laptop closed shut. 

Jisung wants badly to kiss the frown off his face, but he never signed up for a corporate romance. Instead, he takes Minho’s hand from under the table and intertwines their fingers, stroking Minho’s thumb with his own. 

They stay like that for a little bit until Minho pulls his hand away, fumbles with his bag on the floor, and pulls out his wallet before shoving it into the pockets of his pants. 

“Let’s go get something to eat.” Minho stands from his chair, offering a hand out to Jisung, who gladly takes it into his own and reconnects their fingers. 

The warmth blooms in his heart, a continuous warmth, but now it’s blossoming rapidly. There are times where whatever has transpired between the two of them becomes clumsy and a graceless dance, but the differences between their relationship as friends compared to _this_ aren’t all that dissimilar, because they’ve always been drawn to each other in a particular way. 

But they have time to figure it out. 

They have all the time in the world.

Minho leads him out of the building, passing the security and the front desk, who don’t glance in their direction, and onto the sidewalk. Once they’ve made it out, Jisung lets go, raking his hand into his hair while pressing the condensation of his coffee cup into the side of his head to cool him from walking outside when the sun was at its peak in the sky.

“This is why you shouldn’t come visit me at work, because I don’t feel like going back after this,” Minho says as they begin to walk, their fingertips only brushing past each other’s now. 

“Then don’t,” Jisung suggests. “Just skip out on the rest of the day and go home.”

“Not everyone can just work whenever they want to on their own little timetable like you can.”

“I was just giving you a suggestion. Besides, what’s the worst thing they could do? Fire you?”

Minho scoffs. “That’s exactly what they would do.”

“They don’t deserve you then,” he teases, holding on to one of Minho’s shoulders and giving it a slight shake. “My code-writing prodigy.”

“Prodigy, my ass,” Minho says with a laugh, releasing himself out of Jisung’s grip. “Tell that to the college professor who almost failed me in my first computer science class because I apparently wasn’t ‘cut out for the profession.’”

“I remember that,” Jisung says. “Fuck him, though. You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Minho nods. “But I _did_ maybe, sort of, kind of stay with computer science... just to spite him.”

“Only you would do something like that.”

“You probably would too,” Minho points out. “But if only he could see me now, spending all my time trapped in a cubicle in that pretty little office building.”

Jisung shakes his head, grins so wide that it hurts his cheeks “Oh, and by the way,” he says after a moment. “I was wondering if you were free this weekend?”

“Yeah, why?” Minho turns to him with his head tilted to the side. “Did you want to do something?”

He nods, his heart fluttering. “It’s a surprise though.”

“Aww, sweetie,” Minho amps up the sarcasm in his voice. “Is that your way of saying you want to have sex with me?”

“Don’t be fucking crude in the middle of the day,” Jisung says, swatting Minho on his forearm. “But if you want, I’m sure we…”

That alone causes Minho to flush red, and Jisung has to bite back his laughter.

…

The surprise comes in the form of an hour long train ride, which Jisung had booked on a whim (two hours before he had asked Minho to accompany him on said ride). While the wheels hit the tracks with each rotation, the rhythmic sound and bumps lull him to sleep as his head is tucked into Minho’s shoulder. They had both woken up too early for their liking to catch this train, but it’s not all that bad. A quiet ride, Minho holds out his phone in front, a pair of earbuds shared between them with the videos playing on the screen blending in as white noise.

Another taxi is needed to arrive at their final destination: a trail bordering an expansive lake. It’s only a day trip, but the moment he steps out of the car, he inhales the air, just below scorching, but bearable from the coolness of the morning. 

“Daecheong Lake, huh,” Minho says when he takes sight of the scene around them, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. “Is this where you’re going to bury my dead body?”

“That’s exactly why we’re here,” Jisung deadpans, staring directly at Minho. “I forgot that you couldn’t swim.”

Minho side eyes him warily before breaking out into a smile, making his way onto the trail. Jisung picks up his pace to catch up, interlocking their fingers together and taking the lead. Perhaps it’s not the best idea, the skin to skin contact of their fingers laced tighter than a clove hitch, especially with the sun roasting the air around them. The humidity in the air doesn’t help, but he doesn’t pay it any mind. 

There aren’t many people around, so they have a private solitude on the trail, wooden planks spanning out for miles under their shoes. The sound of rolling water is the only thing between them, the green of the trees saturating the fog that’s clinging to the misty sky. The scene is in perfect harmony, creating a complete and watercolor-esque picture.

“You don’t know where you’re going, do you?” Minho looks at Jisung, who has the slight lead out of the two of them. 

“You have absolutely no faith in me,” he says, which is just code for _he doesn’t have any fucking clue._ He had looked at several maps before they came, even traced a trail on his phone a little before they arrived. But none of that competes with his shoddy memory. It’s okay. Somethings are meant to have less of a plan and more of an idea. 

Or, it’s what he uses as his excuse.

Minho easily picks up on Jisung’s evasive answer, scoffing affectionately. 

They bask in that silence for a while, still walking down the length of the trail, the density of the trees increasing as they make their way deeper and deeper into the pathway. Jisung continues to lead—or attempts to—but there’s really only one direction that the path leads to, and that’s towards the lake. 

“You know, I’m expanding my horizons, branching out into new hobbies and stuff,” Jisung says, his grip on Minho’s hand still tight. 

“Yeah?” Minho looks at him, with a gleam in his eyes. “And what might those be?”

“I’ve simply taken an interest in the outdoors,” he replies with a smirk. “I could be one of those people who go out into the forests and film themselves building houses with only a sharpened rock.”

“I’m sure.”

“You really have no faith in me,” Jisung echoes the words from earlier.

“Oh no,” Minho replies, shaking his head. “I _have_ faith in you, that maybe you’d figure out how to build a house. But what’s the point of building a house if you couldn’t survive a day out here alone?”

 _“Alone?”_ Jisung gasps, his jaw dropping wide. “You’re saying that you wouldn’t come with me? We could live a recluse life out here.”

“I don’t know...” Minho’s tone turns inquisitive. “City boys can’t do without their air conditioning. You would come running back to the city the moment it got too hot. ”

“You’re hot,” Jisung shoots back. 

“You’re disgusting.”

“You love it.” And with those words, he successfully shuts Minho up. 

After more minutes of walking, they reach the lake. The blue and hazy water stretches on for as far as the eye can see with the mountains on the opposite side majestically framing the waterfront. The fog has cleared somewhat, the crepuscular rays pouring out behind a thin blanket of cirrus clouds strung in the sky like water through a sieve. 

He stands there at the lakefront, with Minho by his side, tall grasses brushing against their calves. 

_Maybe this is what tranquility feels like,_ Jisung thinks. 

Maybe this is what it’s like to be encased in a blanket of calmness, surrounded by only beautiful things. 

Maybe this is serendipity at the height of life’s reverie.

Maybe this is—

Minho’s face is blank—contemplative at best—as he looks across the water. But it’s not unfeeling, nor void of emotion. As he continues to sneak glances, the sheet of paper in his front pocket weighs heavy and burns a hole. 

“Min,” he says, pressing his thumb into one of Minho’s knuckles.

“Yeah?” He looks at Jisung, his expression suddenly softening. It makes Jisung want to melt on the spot, but he pushes through. 

“You remember that thing I was writing when we were—” He lets out a slight cough. “It’s not really done and I took out a lot of it, but I told you that I wanted you to read it before—” He reaches into his pocket for the folded sheet of paper, fumbling and retrieving a slightly crumpled sheet, the ink probably smudged from sweat from all of the movement earlier. “Sorry it’s a little, you know, but, uh, yeah…” He hands the paper over to Minho’s empty hands. 

As he reads it, his face morphs away from his neutral expression, his mouth parting as he continues to scan the words down the page. Jisung gnaws on his bottom lip as he waits, because even though he knows Minho will like it, there’s still something nerve wracking about a person reading what he’s written in person, live in real time 

Minho’s eyes dart across the page, left to right and whizzing back and forth faster than light itself. Jisung’s throat is promptly dry and scratchy. 

“You’re actually so fucking cheesy,” Minho stutters out once he’s finished, the tips of his ears aflame. 

“I know—”

“You’re so cheesy for writing this whole thing. But thank you.” Minho’s voice has a little more conviction to it now, his eyes just barely shining. “I love you, yeah? Even if you’re a little unbearable sometimes, I still love you.”

“Hmm, do you now?”

“Do I?” Minho says. “Or how did you put it?” He takes his fingers and rubs circles into his temples. ”I learned how to love and that’s thanks to you, Han Jisung.”

Jisung groans while throwing his head back. “Don’t use my own words against me.”

“You set yourself up for that one,” Minho smirks, but his voice quiets again. “But I meant it. Thank you.”

Jisung hums while Minho presses his lips into his hair. They stand here, with the fog fully cleared and the sun shining brightly overhead. _Here,_ in another corner of the world they’ve made their own. This corner, belonging solely to them, that feels like home, just as it should be. And with his fingers perfectly slotted between Minho’s, it doesn’t matter where they are.

Every corner will always be theirs _._

+++

_Love is an ever changing entity. To pinpoint its exact definition is analogous to an indefinite chase._

_The definition isn't a lost cause; it can become clearer. The actions that unfurl as a result stem from the heart, not the head. It's the sole rhythm of the heart that beats enough for everything to come alive._

_But that’s thanks to you. That's thanks to you…………._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for making it this far! it is the longest thing i've written to date. 
> 
> some quick side notes:  
> 1\. jisung is very incorrect about the rock cycle in ch.1.  
> 2\. the man in the bar/room scene w/ jisung is supposed to be chan, if you were wondering.  
> 3\. G wanted me to add the light novel version of the title (if you dont know what that is please ignore) so here it is: I Made A Mess of July, Because I Felt So At Home in a Place That Shouldn’t Feel At Home, And the Reason Why Is Avoiding Me Like the Plague
> 
> i would love if you left kudos and let me know your thoughts!
> 
> here is my [twitter](https://twitter.com/linosungs)


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